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THE 


CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH 


COLONIAL  ROMANCE 


BY  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS,  Eso. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  YEMASSEE" —  "THE  PARTISAN"  —  "GUY  RIVERS' 
"SCOUT"  —  "  CHARLEMONT"  —  "  VASCONSELOS"  —  ETC.,  ETC. 


"I  nray  vou  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes, 

\Viih  the  memorials,  and  the  tnii.gs  of  fame 

That  do  renown  our  city."  SIIAKESPEAKK. 


NEW  YORK : 

DODD,     MEAD      &      COMPANY, 
PUBLISHERS. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859, 

BY  J.  8.  REDFIELD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


851 


HON.  W.   PORCHER   MILES,  M.  C. 

O  FRIEND!  who  satt'st  beside  me  in  the  hour 

When  Death  was  at  my  hearth ;  and  in  my  home 
The  mother's  cry  of  wailing  for  that  doom, 

Long  hovering,  which,  at  last,  with  fatal  power 

Descended,  like  the  vulture  on  his  prey, 

And  in  his  talons  bore  away  our  young!  — 
Thou  know'st  how  terribly  this  heart  was  wrung  • 

Thou  cam'st  with  watch  and  soothing,  nigh!  and  day, 

No  brother  more  devoted  !  —  More  than  friend, 
Beloved  evermore,  —  behold  me  thine  !  — 
Yet  have  I  little  worthy  that  is  mine, 

Save  love,  and  this  poor  tribute;  which  must  blend 

With  memories  of  thy  watch,  and  of  our  pain, 

And  of  those  precious  boys,  we  both  have  watched  in  vain  ! 

W.  GILMORE  SIMMS. 
WOODLANDS,  S.  C.,  April  2,  1859. 


104 


THE 


CASS1QEE  OF  KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER    I. 

SCENE    OF    ACTION. 

"  Away  !  away  1 

Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  day  ; 
Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a  law."  —  BYKON. 


the  day  to  be  a  fine  one  —  calm,  placid,  and  without 
a  cKiid  —  even  such  a  day  as  frequently  comes  to  cheer  us  in 
the  benign  and  bud-compelling  month  of  April  ;  —  suppose  the 
seas  to  be  smooth  ;  at  rest,  and  slumbering  without  emotion  ;  with 
a  fair  bosom  gently  heaving,  and  sending  up  only  happy  murmurs, 
like  an  infant's  after  a  late  passion  of  tears;  suppose  the  hour 
to  be  a  little  after  the  turn  of  noon,  when,  in  April,  the  sun,  only 
gently  soliciting,  forbears  all  ardency  ;  sweetly  smiles  and  softly 
embraces  ;  and,  though  loving  enough  for  comfort,  is  not  so  op 
pressive  in  his  attachments  as  to  prompt  the  prayer  for  an  iceberg 
upon  which  to  couch  ourselves  for  his  future  communion;  sup 
posing  all  these  supposes,  dear  reader,  then  the  voyager,  running 
close  in  for  the  land  —  whose  fortune  it  is  to  traverse  that  portion 
of  the  Atlantic  which  breaks  along  the  shores  of  Georgia  and  the 
Carolinas  —  beholds  a  scene  of  beauty  in  repose,  such  as  will  be 
very  apt  to  make  him  forgetful  of  all  the  dangers  he  has  passed  ! 
We  shall  say  nothing  of  the  same  region,  defaced  by  strife:*  of 

1* 


10  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

storm  and  billow,  and  blackened  by  the  deluging  vans  of  the 
equinox ; 

"  Wherefore  tax  the  past, 
For  memories  of  sorrow  ?  wherefore  ask, 
Of  the  dark  Future,  what  she  grimly  keeps 
Of  terrors  in  reserve  ?" 

Enough  for  us  that  the  Present  holds  for  us  delicious  compensa 
tion  ;  that  the  moment  is  our  own,  exclusively  for  beauty ;  — 
that  the  charm  of  the  prospect  before  us  is  beyond  question ;  at 
once  prompting  the  desire  to  describe,  yet  baffling  all  powers  of 
description. 

Yet  why  describe  ?  —  since,  as  Byron  deplores  — 

"  Every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days." 

And  yet,  the  scene  is  so  peculiar,  so  individual,  so  utterly  unlike 
that  kind  of  scenery  from  which  the  traveller  usually  extorts  his 
inspiration,  that  something  need  be  said  to  make  us  understand 
the  sources  of  beauty  in  a  region  which  so  completely  lacks  in 
saliency,  in-  elevated  outlines,  in  grand  mountainous  masses,  rug 
ged  defiles,  and  headlong  cataracts.  Here  are  none  of  these. 
All  that  you  behold  —  sea,  and  forest-waste,  and  shore  —  all  lies 
level  before  you.  As  you  see,  the  very  waters  do  not  heave 
themselves  into  giant  forms,  wear  no  angry  crests,  leap  up  with 
no  threatening  voices,  howl  forth  nothing  of  their  secret  rages ! 
We  reject,  at  this  moment,  all  the  usual  adjuncts  which  make 
ocean  awful  and  sublime ;  those  only  excepted  which  harbor  in 
its  magnitude,  its  solemn  sterility  of  waste,  its  deep  mysterious 
murmurs,  that  speak  to  us  ever  of  eternity,  even  when  they  speak 
in  the  lowest  and  most  musical  of  their  tones. 

In  what,  then,  consists  the  beauty  of  the  scene  ?  Let  us  ex 
plain,  and  catalogue,  at  least,  where  we  may  not  be  able  to  do- 
scribe.  You  are  aware,  dear  readers,  that  you  may  set  forth,  on 
a  periagua,  or,  if  you  like  it  better,  a  sloop,  a  schooner,  or  a  trim 
little  steamer;  and,  leaving  the  shores  of  Virginia,  make  your 
way  along  those  of  the  Carolinas  and  Georgia,  to  Florida,  almost 
entirely  landlocked  the  whole  voyage ;  all  along  these  shores,  the 
billows  of  the  sea,  meeting  with  the  descending  rivers,  have 
thrown  up  barrier  islands  and  islets,  that  fence  in  the  main  from 
its  own  invasions.  Here  are  guardian  terraces  of  green,  cov- 


SCENE   OF    ACTION.  11 

ered  with  dense  forests,  that  rise  like  marshalled  legions  along 
the  very  margins  of  the  deep.  Here  are  naked  sand-dunes, 
closing  avenues  between,  upon  which  you  may  easily  fancy  that 
the  fairies  gambol  in  the  moonlight.  Some  are  sprinkled  with 
our  southern  palm-tree,  the  palmetto ;  others  completely  covered 
with  this  modest  growth;  others  again  with  oak,  and  pine,  and 
cypress ;  and  there  are  still  others,  whose  deep,  dense,  capacious 
forests  harbor  the  red  deer  in  abundance ;  and,  skirting  many 
of  these  islets,  are  others  in  process  of  formation ;  long  stripes  of 
marsh,  whose  perpetual  green,  contrasting,  yet  assimilating  beau 
tifully  with  the  glare  of  sunlight  on  the  sea,  so  relieves  the  eye 
with  a  sense  of  sweetness,  beauty,  freshness,  and  repose,  that  you 
never  ask  yourself  the  idle  question,  of  what  profit  this  marsh  — 
its  green  that  bears  neither  fruits  nor  flowers  —  its  plumage 
that  brings  no  grateful  odor — its  growth  without  market  value? 
Enough,  you  say  or  feel,  that,  in  the  regions  where  you  find  it, 
it  is  a  beauty  and  delight. 

And  so,  you  navigate  your  bark  through  avenues  of  sea  be 
tween  these  islets  and  the  main ;  through  winding  channels  where 
the  seas  lie  subdued,  their  crests  under  curb,  and  resting  in  beds 
of  green  and  solitude,  only  tenanted  by  simple  herds  of  deer,  or 
by  wandering  pilgrims  of  the  crane,  the  curlew,  the  pelican  and 
duck. 

Beyond,  the  great  ocean  plain  stretches  wide  and  far ;  and  even 
when  it  rolls  in  storm,  and  its  billows  break  in  fury  along  the 
islet  shores,  not  half  a  mile  away  —  all  here  is  safe  !  On  either 
hand,  the  sheltering  nook  invites  your  prow  ;  quiet  harbors  open 
for  your  reception,  and  offer  security.  Here,  the  creek  that 
creeps  like  a  shining  serpent  through  banks  of  green  ;  here,  the 
bay  that  has  been  scooped  out  in  a  half  circle,  as  if  purposely 
to  persuade  you  to  harborage  —  are  both  present,  affording  ref 
uge  ;  the  great  oaks  grow  close  down  by  the  ocean's  side,  and 
hang  over  with  such  massive  shadows,  that  you  see  the  bath  and 
the  boudoir  together.  You  have  but  to  plunge  in,  and  no  Naiad 
takes  offence ;  and,  lifting  yourself  to  the  shores  by  the  help  of 
that  great  branch  that  stretches  above  the  water,  there  you  may 
resume  your  fig-leaves  with  impunity,  assured  that  no  prudish 
eyes  have  been  shocked  by  your  eccentric  exhibitions  of  a  nude 
Apollo! 


12  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

There  is  a  wondrous  charm  in  this  exquisite  blending  of  land 
and  water  scape.  It  appeals  very  sweetly  to  the  sympathies,  and 
does  not  the  less  excite  the  imagination  because  lacking  in  irreg 
ular  forms  and  stupendous  elevations.  Nay,  we  are  inclined  to 
think  that  it  touches  more  sweetly  the  simply  human  sensibil 
ities.  It  does  not  overawe.  It  solicits,  it  soothes,  beguiles  ;  wins 
upon  us  the  more  we  see  ;  fascinates  the  more  we  entertain  ;  and 
more  fully  compensates  than  the  study  of  the  bald,  the  wild,  the 
abrupt  and  stern,  which  constitute  so  largely  the  elements  in  that 
scenery  upon  which  we  expend  most  of  our  superlatives.  Glide 
through  these  mysterious  avenues  of  islet,  and  marsh,  and  ocean, 
at  early  morning,  or  at  evening,  when  the  summer  surPis  about  to 
subdue  himself  in  the  western  waters ;  or  at  midnight,  when  the 
moon  wins  her  slow  way,  with  wan,  sweet  smile,  hallowing  the 
hour ;  and  the  charm  is  complete.  It  is  then  that  the  elements  all 
seem  to  harmonize  for  beauty.  The  plain  of  ocean  is  spread  out, 
far  as  the  eye  can  range,  circumscribed  only  by  the  blue  walls  of 
Heaven,  and  watched  by  starry  eyes,  its  little  billows  breaking 
with  loving  murmur  upon  the  islet  shores  —  these,  silvery  light,  as 
swept  for  fairy  footsteps,  or,  glowing  in  green,  as  if  roofed  for 
loving  hearts ;  trees,  flowers,  fragrance,  smiling  waters,  and  deli 
cious  breezes,  that  have  hurried  from  the  rugged  shores  of  the 
Cuban,  or  the  gradual  slopes  of  Texas ;  or  farther  yet,  from  still 
more  beautiful  gardens  of  the  South,  where  Death  himself  never 
comes  but  wrapped  in  fragrance  and  loveliness : — look  where  you 
will,  or  as  you  will,  and  they  unite  for  your  conquest ;  and  you 
grow  meek,  yet  hopeful ;  excited,  yet  satisfied  ;  forgetful  of  com 
mon  cares ;  lifted  above  ordinary  emotions ;  and,  if  your  heart  be 
still  a  young,  one,  easily  persuaded  to  believe  that  the  world  is  as 
full  of  bliss  as  of  beauty,  and  that  Love  may  readily  find  a  covert, 
in  thousands  of  sweet  places  of  refuge,  which  God's  blessing  shall 
convert  into  happiest  homes.  Go  through  these  sweet,  silent, 
mysterious  avenues  of  sea  and  islet,  green  plain,  and  sheltering 
thicket,  under  the  prescribed  conditions,  at  early  morning  or 
toward  the  sunset,  or  the  midnight  hour,  and  the  holy  sweetness 
of  the  scene  will  sink  into  your  very  soul,  and  soften  it  to  love 
and  blessing,  even  as  the  dews  of  heaven  steal,  in  the  night-time, 
to  the  bosom  of  the  thirsting  plant,  and  animate  it  to  new  develop 
ments  of  fruitfulness  and  beauty. 


SCENE   OF   ACTION.  13 

And  the  scenery  of  the  main  partakes  of  the  same  character, 
with  but  the  difference  of  foliage.  It  spreads  upward  into  the 
interior,  for  near  a  hundred  miles,  a  vast  plain,  with  few  inequal 
ities  of  surface,  but  wondrously  wooded.  If,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
islets,  marshes,  and  savannahs,  make  an  empire  of  sweetness  and 
beauty;  not  less  winning  are  the  evergreen  varieties  that  checker 
the  face  of  the  country  on  the  other.  Here  are  tracts  of  the  noble 
live  oak,  of  the  gigantic  pine,  of  the  ghostly  cypress ;  groves  of 
each  that  occupy  their  several  provinces,  indicating  as  many  vari 
eties  of  soil.  Amid  these  are  the  crowned  laurel,  stately  as  a 
forest  monarch,  the  bay,  the  beech,  the  poplar,  and  the  mulberry, 
not  to  speak  of  thousands  besides,  distinguished  either  from  their 
use  or  beauty ;  and  in  the  shade  of  these  the  dogwood  flaunts  in 
virgin  white  ;  and  the  lascivious  jessamine  wantons  over  their  tops 
in  sensuous  twines,  filling  the  air  with  fragrance ;  and  the  grape 
hangs  aloft  her  purple  clusters,  which  she  trains  over  branches 
not  her  own,  making  the  oak  and  the  hickory  sustain  those  fruits 
which  they  never  bear  ! 

And  so,  in  brief  transition,  you  pass  from  mighty  colonnades  of 
open  woods  to  dense  thickets  which  the  black  bear  may  scarcely 
penetrate.  At  the  time  of  which  we  propose  to  write,  he  is  one 
of  the  denizens  of  these  regions ;  here,  too,  the  panther  still  lurks, 
watching  the  sheepfold  or  the  deer !  Here  the  beaver  builds  his 
formidable  dams  in  the  solitude  of  the  swamp,  and  the  wolf  and 
the  fox  find  their  habitations  safe.  The  streams '  are  full  of  fish, 
the  forests  of  prey,  the  whole  region  a  wild  empire  in  which  the 
redman  still  winds  his  way,  hardly  conscious  of  his  white  superior, 
though  he  already  begins  to  feel  the  cruel  moral  presence,  in  the 
instinctive  apprehensions  of  his  progress.  And  birds,  in  vast  vari 
eties,  and  reptiles  of  the  ground,  "  startlingly  beautiful,"  are  ten 
ants  still  of  these  virgin  solitudes.  The  great  sea-eagle,  the  fal 
con,  the  vulture ;  these  brood  in  the  mighty  tree-tops,  and  soar  as 
masters  of  the  air;  the  wild  goose  and  duck  lead  their  young 
along  the  sedgy  basins ;  the  cormorant  and  the  gull  scream  across 
the  waters  from  the  marshy  islets ;  and  are  answered,  with  cooing 
murmurs,  from  myriads  of  doves  that  brood  at  noon  in  the  deep 
covert  of  bristly  pines.  The  mock-bird,  with  his  various  melodies, 
a  feathered  satirist,  who  can,  however,  forget  his  sarcasm  in  his 
passion ;  the  red-bird  and  the  nonpareil,  with  softer  and  simpler 


14  THE    CASS1QUE    OF    K1AWAH. 

notes,  which  may  be  merry  as  well  as  tender,  but  are  never  scorn 
ful  ;  the  humming-bird,  that  rare  sucker  of  sweets  —  himself  a 
flower  of  the  air,  —  pioneer  of  the  fairies  —  that  finds  out  the  best 
flowers  ere  they  come,  and  rifles  them  in  advance;  and  —  but 
enough.  Very  beautiful,  dear  friends,  to  the  eye  that  can  see, 
the  susceptible  heart,  and  the  thoughtful,  meditative  mind,  is  the 
beautiful  but  peculiar  province  to  which  we  now  invite  your 
footsteps. 

But,  as  we  can  not  behold  all  this  various  world  at  once,  let  us 
persuade  you  to  one  fair  locality,  which  you  will  find  to  contain, 
in  little,  all  that  we  have  shown  you  in  sweeping  generalities. 

You  will  suppose  yourselves  upon  a  well-wooded  headland, 
crowned  with  live  oaks,  which  looks  out  upon  a  quiet  bay,  at 
nearly  equal  distances  between  the  waters  of  the  Edisto  and  the 
Ashley,  in  the  province  of  South  Carolina.  The  islets  spread 
between  you  and  the  sea,  even  as  we  have  described  them. 
There  are  winding  wrays  through  which  you  may  stretch  your 
sail,  without  impediment,  into  the  great  Atlantic.  There  are 
lovely  isles  upon  which  you  may  pitch  your  tents,  and  take  your 
prey,  while  the  great  billows  roll  in  at  your  very  feet,  and  the 
great  green  tree  shelters  you,  all  the  while,  from  the  sharp  arrows 
of  the  sun.  You  look  directly  down  upon  what,  at  the  first  glance, 
would  seem  a  lake :  the  lands  appear  to  enclose  it  on  every  hand ; 
but  there  is  a  difference,  you  see,  in  the  shade  of  yonder  trees, 
from  those  on  the  islet  just  before  us,  which  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
an  arm  of  the  sea  is  thrust  between ;  and  here,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  are  similar  differences  which  denote  a  similar  cause.  But 
our  lake,  or  bay,  is  none  the  less  sheltered  or  secure,  because  it 
maintains  such  close  connection  with  the  mighty  deeps.  Faintly 
alar,  you  may  note,  on  the  south  and  west,  that  there  are  still 
other  islets,  keeping  up  a  linked  line  with  that  which  spreads  in 
front,  and  helping  to  form  that  unbroken  chain,  which,  as  I  have 
told  you,  spreads  along  the  coast  from  the  capes  of  Virginia  to 
those  of  the  Floridian.  The  territory  of  the  Floridian  is  under 
its  old  Spanish  master  .,till;  an  ugly  neighbor  of  our  amiable 
English,  who  tenant,  in  feeble  colonies,  these  sylvan  realms  upon 
the  verge  of  which  we  stand.  The  period,  I  may  mention  here, 
is  the  year  of  Grace  (Grace  be  with  us!)  one  thousand,  six  hun 
dred  and  eighty-four.  Our  English  colonies  of  Carolina  are  less 


SCENE   OF   ACTION.  15 

than  thirty  years  old,  and  their  growth  has  been  a  slow  one.  The 
country  is  still,  in  great  degree,  a  solitude ! 

The  day — an  April  day — is  one  of  those  which  good  old 
Herbert  so  happily  describes,  by  its  moral  aspect,  as 

"  A  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky." 

In  truth,  it  is  very  sweet  and  beautiful,  repose  its  prevailing  fea 
ture  - —  repose  upon  land  and  sea ;  a  smiling  Peace,  sitting  in  sun 
shine  in  the  heavens ;  a  healthy,  life-giving  breeze  gushing  up  from 
the  ocean,  in  the  southwest,  and  making  all  the  trees  along  the 
shore  nod  welcome  and  satisfaction  to  the  river ;  and  new  blossoms 
everywhere  upon  the  land;  all  significant  of  that  virgin  birth 
which  the  maternal  summer  is  about  to  receive  from  a  prolific 
spring,  which  God  has  hallowed  for  the  uses  of  Humanity. 
We  muse  as  we  look,  and  say,  with  the  poet  — 

"  Here  all  but  the  spirit  of  man  is  divine." 

And,  as  yet,  we  may  venture  to  say  that  the  spirit  of  man  is 
hardly  so  corrupt  here  —  hardly  so  incongenial  with  earth's  vege 
table  offspring  —  as  greatly  to  shock  by  the  contrast.  Man  — 
the  white  man  at  all  events  —  is  hardly  here  in  sufficient  numbers, 
massed  and  in  perpetual  conflict,  to  be  wholly  insensible  to  the 
modest  moral  which  is  taught  by  nature.  No  doubt  we  shall  have 
enough  of  him  in  time.  No  doubt  we  shall  be  forced  to  behold 
him  in  all  his  most  dark  and  damning  colors,  such  as  shadow  the 
fairest  aspects  of  his  superior  civilization.  But  he  is  not  yet  here 
in  sufficient  force  or  security  to  become  insolent  in  his  vice  or 
passion. 

"  But  the  red  man,"  say  you.  "  He  is  here."  Ay,  there  are 
his  scattered  tribes  —  they  are  everywhere  ;  but  feeble  in  all  their 
numbers.  He  is  a  savage,  true ;  but  savage,  let  me  tell  you  — 
and  the  distinction  is  an  important  one,  arguing  ignorance,  not 
will  —  savage  rather  in  his  simplicity  than  in  his  corruptions. 
His  brutality  is  rather  that  of  b&  rbarism  than  vice.  He  wanders 
through  these  woods  at  seasons;  here  fishing  to-day — to-morrow, 
gone,  leaving  no  trace ;  gone  in  pursuit  of  herds  which  he  has 
probably  routed  from  old  pasturages  along  these  very  waters. 
For  a  hundred  miles  above,  there  rove  the  tribes  of  the  Stono  and 
the  Isundiga,  the  Edisto  and  the  See  wee,  the  Kiawah,  and  the 


16  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Ashepoo,  all  tributaries  of  the  great  nation  of  the  Yemassee.  You 
will  wander  for  weeks,  yet  meet  not  a  man  of  them ;  yet,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  when  you  least  fancy  them,  when  you  dream 
yourself  in  possession  of  an  unbroken  solitude,  they  will  spring  up 
beside  the  path,  and  challenge  your  attention  by  a  guttural,  which 
may  seem  to  you  a  welcome ;  or  by  a  cri  de  guerre,  which  shall 
certainly  appear  to  you  the  whoop  of  death ! 

But,  at  this  moment,  the  solitude  seems  intact.  There  are  no 
red  men  here.  The  very  silence  —  so  deep  is  the  solitude  — 
seems  to  have  a  sound ;  and,  brooding  long  on  these  headlands 
without  a  companion,  you  will  surely  hear  some  voice  speaking  to 
all  your  senses  —  perhaps  many  voices ;  especially  if  you  do  not 
use  your  own.  Your  ears,  that  hunger  naturally  for  human 
sounds,  will  finally  make  them  for  themselves.  Nay,  you  will 
shout  aloud,  in  your  desperation,  if  only  in  search  of  echoes. 

And,  as  if  the  better  to  satisfy  us  of  the  wondrous  means  of 
shelter  and  security  in  this  world  of  thicket  and  seclusion  —  add 
ing  to  the  natural  picturesque  that  of  the  moral  —  even  as  we 
fancy  this  realm  of  solitude  to  be  unbroken,  there  is  a  sound ! 
There  are  strokes  of  the  paddle ;  there  are  human  voices.  A 
canoe  shoots  out  from  the  thickets  to  the  east.  It  emerges  from 
a  creek,  which  opens  so  modestly  upon  the  bay  that  the  entrance 
to  it  remains  unseen.  The  vessel  is  of  cypress,  one  of  those  little 
"dug-outs"  which  the  red  men  scooped  for  themselves  with  shells, 
after  having  first  charred  with  fire  those  portions  of  the  timber 
which  they  designed  to  remove.  It  skims  over  the  waters  like 
an  eggshell,  carrying  three  persons  as  lightly  as  if  it  had  no 
freight.  Two  of  them,  one  a  man,  the  other  a  boy  work  at  the 
paddles  —  not  oars ;  the  instrument  is  a  short  one,  working  close 
at  the  side  of  the  boat,  even  as  the  sea-fowl  uses  her  feet.  The 
third,  a  man  also,  gray  with  years,  sits  at  the  stern,  his  head  hang 
ing  forward,  his  eyes  brooding  on  the  bottom  of  the  canoe.  They 
are  all  red  men.  He  at  the  stern  is  evidently  a  chief.  He  wears 
a  sort  of  coronal  of  feathers,  and  a  gay  crimson  coat,  hunting-shirt 
fashion,  with  yellow  fringes,  evidently  the  manufacture  of  the 
white  man.  There  is  a  belt  across  his  shoulders,  from  which 
hangs  the  tomahawk ;  another  about  his  waist,  which  secures  hia 
knife ;  his  right  hand  grasps  bow  and  arrows,  though  the  former 
remains  unbent,  and  the  latter  lie  bundled  together  innocuous  in 


SCENE   OF   ACTION.  17 

their  rattlesnake  quiver.  The  man  who  paddles  is  a  common 
Indian,  one  of  the  vileins,  of  poor  costume  and  mean  aspect.  The 
boy  is  habited  somewhat  like  the  chief,  with  crimson  hunting-shirt, 
and  belt  about  the  waist,  but  he  carries  neither  knife  nor  toma 
hawk.  A  bow  and  arrows  suited  to  his  youth  lie  behind  him  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat.  He  may  use  them  at  yonder  turn  of  the 
bay,  where  you  see  a  little  flock  of  English  ducks  plying  their 
beaks  along  the  sedgy  shallows. 

The  canoe  passes  out  of  sight,  winding  through  the  sinuous 
passages  of  yonder  marsh  ;  and  for  a  moment  the  silence  resumes 
its  sway  along  the  shores. 

But,  almost  as  soon  as  they  disappear,  another  party  comes 
upon  the  scene.  And  he  is  a  white  man.  He  glides  down  to  the 
headlands,  looking  out  upon  the  bay,  from  the  deep  shelter  of  the 
thicket  on  our  left.  From  this  covert  he  has  watched  the  progress 
of  the  canoe ;  and  there  were  moments  when  it  swept  so  closely 
to  his  place  of  watch,  that  it  would  have  been  easy,  in  the  case  of 
one  so  lithe  and  vigorous  of  frame,  to  have  leaped  into  it  at  a 
single  bound. 

The  stranger  might  be  thirty-five  or  forty ;  a  hale,  fresh-look 
ing  Saxon,  with  a  frank,  manly  face,  bronzed  rather  darkly  by 
our  southern  sun,  but  distinguished  only  by  traits  of  health.  His 
face  is  somewhat  spoiled  for  beauty  by  an  ugly  scar  upon  one 
cheek.  He  is  armed  with  knife  and  pistols,  which  he  carries  in 
his  girdle.  His  dress  is  that  of  the  sailor,  loose  duck  trowsers,  a 
round-jacket,  a  hat  of  coarse  straw  with  broad  blue  ribbons  round 
it,  in  which  sticks  an  earthen  pipe  of  some  bulk,  with  a  stem  of 
Carolina  cane.  In  his  hand  he  carries  a  ship's  spyglass,  which 
seems  to  have  done  service. 

Following  the  "  dug-out"  of  the  red  men  with  keen  eyes  as  they 
sped,  he  continued  to  trace  their  progress  with  the  glass  until  they 
were  wholly  covered  from  sight  by  the  dense  marshes  of  the  creek. 
Then,  thrusting  his  glass  beneath  his  arm,  he  turned  away,  making 
a  sort  of  moody  march  along  the  shore. 

"  Blast  the  red  rascals,"  quoth  he  musingly,  "  I  can  make  noth 
ing  of  them.  That  creek  leads  out  to  the  sea.  But  there  are 
islands  they  can  stop  at,  and  I  suppose  mean  to  do  so.  There  is 
Kiawah,  and  a  dozen  more,  that  they  may  work  up  to  in  such  a 
light-going  craft.  W»ll,  we  may  look  for  a  plenty  of  'em  soon, 


18  THE   CASS1QUE  OF   KIAWAH. 

now  that  fish  begin  to  bite.  But  I  want  to  be  off  before  they 
come.  I've  no  belief  in  the  redskins  anyhow,  and  want  to  keep 
my  own  skin  sound.  Don't  want  to  be  stuck  full  of  arrows; 
don't  want  to  be  fried  alive  in  pitch-pine.  A  Spanish  dance 
rather,  with  a  score  of  pikes  at  the  rear,  to  keep  one  in  motion 
where  there 's  no  music !" 

And  the  sturdy  Englishman,  for  he  was  a  genuine  John  Bull 
and  of  a  good  order,  took  the  pipe  from  his  hat-band,  replenished 
the  mill  from  his  pocket,  kindled  his  tinder,  and  throwing  himself 
down  in  a  thicket,  proceeded  to  smoke,  taking  out  his  pipe  occa 
sionally  to  soliloquize.  We  gather  up  some  of  his  random  talks, 
as  they  may  help  us  in  our  own  progress  in  this  veracious 
history. 

"No,  I've  no  faith  in  these  redskins.  They're  at  peace,  they 
say.  Oh  yes !  and  will  smoke  any  quantity  of  tobacco  in  their 
calumets,  making  their  treaties  and  putting  away  their  presents. 
But  it's  a  sort  of  peace  that  don't  pay  for  the  parchment.  Just 
so  long  as  the  colony's  strong  enough  to  lick  'em,  and  no  longer, 
will  they  keep  the  promise.  It's  only  when  they  see  that  they 
can 't  outnumber  you  —  when  they  can  count  a  bagnet  for  every 
bow  —  that  they've  any  Christian  bowels  for  peace.  I  wonder 
what  chance  I'd  have  here,  in  this  lonesome  spot,  if  these  three 
redskins  now  had  come  upon  me  napping.  Wouldn't  they  have 
been  working  in  my  wool,  without  saying  *  By  your  leave,  brother' : 
The  red  devils!  call  them  human?  I'd  as  soon  trust  a  monkey 
or  a  sucking  tiger,  in  the  matter  of  human  bowels  and  affec 
tion  !" 

And  the  soliloquist  lapsed  away,  after  this  speech,  into  that 
dreamy  sort  of  condition,  which  tobacco  is  so  well  calculated  to 
inspire,  in  which  the  mind  is  rather  disposed  to  play  than  work, 
or,  at  all  events,  in  which  it  rather  broods  than  cogitates.  His 
pipe  exhausted,  he  rose,  emptied  the  bowl  of  its  ashes,  stuck  the 
stem  into  his  hat-band,  braced  his  leather  girdle  closer  to  his 
waist  by  a  notch,  and,  after  a  long  gaze  out  upon  the  sea,  saun 
tered  away  slowly  into  thicker  woods. 

As  we  follow  him,  we  see  that  he  makes  his  way  through  a  sort 
of  labyrinth.  Such  thickets  afford  at  all  times  a  temporary  cover ; 
but  he  so  wound  about  in  the  present  instance,  took  up  so  many 
clues,  and  made  such  circuits,  that,  did  we  not  follow  him  so 


SCENE    OF    ACTION.  19 

closely  we  should  never,  of  ourselves,  be  able  to  track  his  prog 
ress  to  his  fastness. 

This  lies  in  a  still  deeper  thicket  which  stretches  down  to  a 
creek.  Here  he  has  a  den  which  a  bear  might  select,  fenced  m 
by  a  close  shrubbery,  overshadowed  by  great  trees,  vines  inter 
lacing  them,  and,  as  it  were,  wrapping  them  up  into  a  mass  which 
never  allowed  a  sunbeam  to  penetrate.  Art  has  done  something 
to  make  the  place  snug  enough  for  shelter  from  the  weather. 
There  is  a  rude  hut  of  poles,  covered  with  bark ;  within  it,  there 
is  a  box,  an  iron  pot,  a  gridiron,  and  a  jug.  An  old  tarpaulin  hat 
and  coat  hang  from  the  same  branches.  There  is  a  light  shot 
gun  in  a  cypress  hollow ;  and,  from  all  you  see,  you  conclude  that 
our  solitary  has  arranged  for  an  abode  that  seems  destined  for 
continuance  awhile,  and  has  been  in  use  perhaps  a  month  or  two 
already. 

From  this  cabin  he  detaches  hooks,  line,  and  tackle,  for  fishing, 
and  takes  his  way  down  to  the  creek.  There,  snug  in  close  har 
bor,  lies  a  skiff,  of  European  build,  light  enough  for  a  damsel  to 
manage.  He  embarks,  glides  down  the  stream,  finds  his  way  into 
the  bay  already  described,  and,  crossing  toward  a  recess  made  by 
the  projection  of  two  arms  of  the  marsh,  proceeds  to  anchor  and 
to  cast  his  line.  The  position  he  has  chosen  is  one  to  render  him 
safe  from  any  shaft  or  shot  from  the  shore ;  and  we  must  not  for 
get  to  mention  that  his  light  gun  lies  convenient  across  the  thwarts 
of  the  boat.  Satisfied  that  he  has  taken  all  due  precautions,  he 
yields  himself  eagerly  to  the  sport  before  him. 

He  may  have  been  thus  engaged  for  more  than  an  hour,  when 
ne  started  up  suddenly,  and  his  whole  countenance  assumed  an 
expression  of  intense  interest.  A  dull,  heavy  sound  was  heard 
reverberating  along  the  waters. 

"  A  shot !"  he  cries,  "  and  from  a  brazen  muzzle." 

His  line  is  instantly  drawn  in  —  his  anchor.  He  no  longer 
heeds  the  fish.  He  has  had  some  sport.  There  are  twenty 
shining  sides  that  glisten  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  There  are 
sundry  innocent  victims  that  seem  very  much  out  of  their  proper 
depths  of  water  and  security.  But,  now,  he  gives  them  neither 
eye  nor  thought.  His  lines  are  in,  his  paddles  out ;  his  lusty  sin 
ews  are  braced  to  eager  exertion.  He  speeds  once  more  across 
the  bay,  passes  up  his  creek  of  harborage,  fastens  his  skiff  to  the 


20  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

shore  under  close  cover,  leaps  out,  leaves  his  fish  behind  him,  and, 
catching  up  glass  and  gun,  hastens  once  more  to  the  headland 
where  we  first  encountered  him. 

"'Tis  she!"  he  exclaims,  after  sweeping  the  southwest  passage 
with  his  glass.  "'Tis  the  '  Happy-go-Lucky'  at  last.  Thank 
Grod  !  I'm  sick  enough  of  this  waiting. 

Following  his  glance,  we  see  the  object  which  occasions  his  de 
light.  A  small  vessel  glides  through  the  distant  channels.  Now 
we  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  whole  figure ;  a  low  long  brigantine, 
that  seems  to  carry  admirable  heels.  The  next  moment,  her 
white  sails  and  slender  masts  only  gleam  above  the  sand  dunes 
and  the  marsh.  Now  she  disappears  behind  a  forest ;  and  anon 
emerges,  running  by  a  sand  dune. 

Our  solitary  runs  up  a  tree  that  juts  out  appropriately  on  the 
headland.  He  seems  to  have  used  it  before  for  such  a  purpose. 
He  climbs  like  a  cat ;  is  evidently  a  sailor ;  is  up,  aloft ;  and,  in 
a  moment,  a  white  streamer  is  seen  waving  from  the  tree ! 

The  scene  grOws  animated  with  a  new  life.  There  is  no  longer 
solitude.  That  one  brave  vessel,  "  walking  the  waters,"  is  "  a 
thing  of  life."  How  beautifully  she  comes  on  !  —  seems  rather  to 
fly  than  to  swim ;  darts  through  the  narrow  channels,  as  if  certain 
^f  her  route ;  and  breaks  into  the  bay,  with  all  her  canvass  belly- 
Mg  out  under  the  embraces  of  the  western  breeze,  as  if  Cleopatra 
herself  were  on  deck.  And  one,  not  unlike,  and  not  less  beautiful 
than  Cleopatra,  was  on  her  deck  at  that  moment.  But  of  her 
hereafter. 

Our  solitary  shouts  joyous  from  his  tree.  Well  may  he  shout. 
It  is  with  love  that  he  shouts.  She  is  his  pet,  his  favorite ;  he 
loves  the  gallant  vessel,  as  if  she  were  a  bride. 

And  she  is  a  beautiful  creature.  Even  in  the  sight  of  us  sim 
ple  landsmen,  who  know  nothing  of  her  peculiar  virtues,  how  she 
sails ;  how  she  can  eat  into  the  very  eye  of  the  wind ;  how  clean 
are  her  heels ;  how  easy  her  motion  ;  what  storms  she  has  borne 
and  baffled ;  what  seas  she  has  traversed ;  over  what  foes  tri 
umphed  ;  what  wondrous  ventures  made ;  —  even  to  us  she  comes 
on  as  a  beautiful  creature,  all  ethereal  —  a  thing  of  light,  and 
life,  and  night,  and  perpetual  motion !  Her  hull,  long  and  nar 
row  ;  her  tall,  rakish  masts ;  the  vast  spread  of  canvass  which  she 
carries,  and  the  elaborate  grace  of  her  spars  and  motion  —  these 


SCENE   OF   ACTION.  21 

strike  even  the  inexperienced  eye,  as  in  proof  of  her  speed  and 
beauty.  She  has  a  grace  of  her  own  ;  but  you  see,  too,  that  there 
are  soul  and  skill  in  her  management.  You  feel  that  there  are 
courage  and  conduct ;  that  there  is  a  master-spirit  on  board,  who 
wills,  and  she  walks  ;  who  shouts,  and  she  flies  ;  who  will  carry  her 
forward  when  the  seas  are  wildest,  and  train  her  on  to  the  fearful- 
lest  encounter  with  superior  bulk,  even  as  the  swordfish  darts  to 
the  encounter  with  the  whale  !  Even  we  simple  landsmen  can  see 
and  conceive  all  these  things  as  we  gaze  on  the  beautiful  creature, 
while  she  flings  the  feathery  spray  from  her  bows. 

But  the  eyes  of  the  seaman  glitter  as  he  beholds,  and  there  is 
a  tear  from  those  of  the  rough  old  salt,  while  ours  do  but  smile. 
His  heart  is  in  it.  She  is  the  creature  of  his  affections.  How 
he  envies  the  happy  chieftain  who  sways  the  movements  of  his 
painted  beauty.  His  glance  follows  every  plunge  which  she 
makes  through  the  pliant  waters ;  and  as  she  comes  round  upon 
the  breeze,  without  a  word  or  voice,  and  darts  forward,  as  an 
arrow  from  the  bow,  straight  for  her  harborage,  he  shouts  —  he 
3an  not  help  but  shout.  He  can  no  longer  keep  silent :  he  shouts 
as  he  glides  down  the  tree,  and  rather  drops  from  it  than  descends. 

"  Hurrah  !   God  bless  the  Happy-go-Lucky !  hurrah  !  hurrah  !" 

The  vessel  makes  her  port.  Our  solitary  is  on  the  edge  of  the 
cove  to  which  her  prow  is  bent.  He  is  there  to  catch  the  rope 
«,re  it  touches  earth,  and  hurry  with  it  to  the  tree  where  he  makes 
her  fast.  The  bolts  rattle,  the  sails  descend,  and,  with  scarce  a 
rripple,  she  glides  into  the  mouth  of  a  little  creek  which  has  grate 
fully  felt  her  form  before.  Her  masts  mingle  with  the  tall  pines 
that  brood  over  on  either  side,  so  that  it  shall  take  very  keen  and 
curious  eyes  to  detect  her  presence.  A  voice,  clear,  sharp,  and 
musical,  is  heard  from  her  decks :  — 

"  Well,  Jack  Belcher,  you  see  we  have  not  forgotten  you." 

The  tones  were  affectionate. 

"  God  bless  your  honor,  and  your  honor's  honor !  May  you 
live  for  ever,  and  die  at  last  in  the  'Happy-go-Lucky'!  All's 
well,  your  honor." 


THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KLAWA1I. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    HAPPT-GO-LUCKIES. 

"  Touchstone.  And  whither  with  you  now  1  What  ioo^e  i^tV"j  are  you 
bound  for  ?  Come  !  what  comrades  are  you  to  meet  withal  ?  Where 's  the 
supper  ?  where 's  the  rendezvous  1"  Eastwai  d  Hoe. 

"  Quoth  he"  —  the  ancient  Marinere  —  "  quoth  he,  there  was  a  ship !" 

BUT  a  more  famous  ship,  in  her  day,  than  ever  floated  muse  of 
Coleridge,  was  she,  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  of  the  Spanish  seas 
and  the  year  of  grace  1684.  Of  a  remote  period  to  ours,  she 
was  yet  not  very  unlike  in  build,  nor  perhaps  inferior  in  per 
formance,  to  the  famous  Baltimore  clippers  of  the  present  time. 
"Long,  low,  rakish,"  in  her  structure,  she  carries  a  cloud  of  canvass, 
under  which  we  have  her  seen  leaping  forward  with  an  impulse 
which,  in  a  heavier  sea  and  under  a  livelier  breeze,  would  have 
buried  her  bowsprit  in  a  continual  crush  of  foam.  In  the  smooth 
waters  of  the  bay  beneath  her,  she  glides  like  some  graceful  sea- 
bird,  exulting  in  the  consciousness  only  of  a  pleasurable  excite 
ment.  Yet,  docile  in  her  sports,  she  has  only  heard  a  shrill 
whistle,  and  almost  silently  her  white  wings  fold  themselves  up  to 
hor  sides,  and  with  scarce  a  ripple  of  the  wave,  and  without  far 
ther  effort  of  her  own,  she  passes  to  her  covert  among  the  pines, 
and  her  masts  are  lost  among  their  shady  tops  of  green. 

She  is  a  cruiser.  You  may  guess  that  from  her  build,  her 
world  of  canvass,  her  speed,  her  size,  if  not  from  the  long  brass 
cannon  working  upon  a  pivot  amidships,  and  the  six  brass  muz 
zles  that  grin  significantly  with  open  jaws  on  either  side.  She 
has  the  capacity  for  mischief,  clearly,  whatever  be  her  character. 
Gently  rocking  in  the  narrow  lagune  where  she  seeks  her  rest,  it 
is  permitted  us  to  behold  something  more  than  her  simple  outlines. 
Her  inhabitants  now  tumble  into  sight  on  every  hand ;  a  goodly 


THE   HAPPY-GO-LUCKIES.  23 

number  of  vigorous  sea-dogs  —  somewhat  more  numerous,  it  would 
seem,  than  are  absolutely  necessary  to  the  working  of  so  small  a 
craft.  They  constitute  a  crew,  which,  we  may  see  at  a  glance, 
are  to  be  relied  upon  when  blows  are  heavy.  There  are  scarred 
veterans  among  these  fellows,  motley  enough  —  English,  Irish, 
Dutch,  French  —  an  amalgam  of  nations,  which,  elsewhere,  are 
rarely  to  be  found  working  amicably  together.  Yet  here,  they 
seem  fused,  as  by  one  strong  presiding  will,  into  a  congruous  com 
munity.  The  most  casual  eye  may  detect  each  national  character 
istic,  in  shape,  look,  tone,  gesture  ;  yet  here  they  blend  together  har 
moniously,  under  a  common  authority.  They  are  docile  enough, 
aiost  of  them  —  nay  submissive ;  yet  there  is  a  sort  of  freedom, 
<oo,  amounting  to  a  social  license,  which  forbids  the  idea  that 
cither  of  these  has  sunk  his  individuality  in  his  obedience  to  au 
thority.  You  hear  them  laugh  and  jest  together ;  there  are  some 
tvho  sing  out  aloud,  as  if  to  test  the  healthy  capacity  of  voice  and 
lungs ;  and,  not  unfrequently,  a  broad,  corpulent,  aggressive  Brit 
ish  oath  breaks  upon  the  ear,  like  the  roar  of  a  bulldog,  from  the 
lips  of  some  surly  islander,  who  fancies  that  unless  he  swears,  and 
can  hear  himself  and  make  others  hear,  he  forfeits  something  of 
the  natural  independence  of  his  breed. 

You  see,  next,  that  these  fellows  are  all  picked  men.  They  are 
rough  sea-dogs,  no  doubt,  but  sturdy,  cool,  hardy,  stubborn ;  ca 
pable  of  good  knocks ;  giving  and  receiving ;  who  have  been  al 
ready  trained  and  tried  in  a  severe  apprenticeship.  They  are  fit 
fellows  for  a  cruiser  with  a  roving  commission.  And  such  is  that 
borne  by  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky." 

As  we  traverse  the  decks,  we  find  proofs  of  a  late  visit  to  re 
gions  farther  south.  There  are  piles  of  West  India  fruits  strewn 
about ;  pyramids  of  orange,  guava,  and  pine,  secured  in  the  net 
tings  around  the  guns,  showing  a  more  innocent  species  of  artillery 
than  belongs  altogether  to  the  other  aspects  of  the  ship.  The 
"  Happy-go-Lucky"  has  probably  looked  very  lately  into  Jamaica 
and  Barbadoes ;  has  had  a  squint  at  Porto  Bello,  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  Havana ;  and  may  have  enjoyed  a  loving  wrestle  with 
some  of  the  good  brigantines  of  these  latter  places,  in  which  they 
have  found  more  fruits  than  those  which  lie  carelessly  strewn  on 
deck.  Quien  sabe  ? 

But  these  piles  of  fruit  implied,  in   the  present  case,  neither 


24  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

want  of  cleanliness  nor  confusion.  In  a  twink,  our  cruiser  will  be 
cleared  for  action ;  and,  in  the  matter  of  cleanliness,  never  were 
decks  kept  under  "  Holy  Stone"  regimen  more  rigidly  than  hers. 
Her  captain,  be  sure,  is  something  of  a  martinet ;  and  the  nice, 
trim  condition  of  his  ship  would,  we  fancy,  have  seemed  a  very 
idle  object  to  the  bluff,  less  fastidious  sailors  of  the  previous  gen 
eration  —  the  days  of  Van  Tromp,  and  Drake,  and  Cavendish. 
It  needs  but  a  glance  to  assure  yourself  that  our  cruiser  is  under 
the  management  of  one  who  is  no  mere  sailor ;  who  brings  some 
taste  into  exercise  along  with  his  duties ;  who  has  grace  as  well  as 
valor ;  and  can,  doubtless,  dance  a  galliard  with  courtly  ease,  in 
the  very  next  hour  after  making  the  dons  of  Mexico  foot  it  to 
the  most  vexatious  sort  of  music. 

But  let  us  see  him  more  nearly.  He  is  the  same  person  who 
first  welcomed  our  solitary,  Jack  Belcher,  at  the  moment  of  their 
mutual  recognition.  The  latter  personage  has  bounded  on  board 
the  vessel,  the  moment  her  sides  grazed  the  shores,  and  we  see 
that  the  hand  of  his  superior  is  extended  him,  with  a  frank  and 
hearty  freedom  that  speaks  quite  as  much  for  friendship  as  author 
ity.  Our  solitary  wrings  it  with  warm  affection.  There  is  some 
love  between  the  two,  be  sure.  The  superior  speaks  good  hu* 
moredly  :  "  Well !  tired  out,  Jack,  eh  ?" 

"  Tired  enough,  your  honor  —  but  only  of  the  waiting,  not  of 
the  work." 

"  What !  you  'd  rather  be  dancing  fandangoes  with  the  Cuban 
barefoots,  eh  ?" 

And  there  was  a  momentary  flash  of  merriment  in  the  blue  eyes 
of  ihe  speaker —  but  momentary  only,  for  the  next  instant  a  cloud 
seemed  to  pass  across  his  face. 

This  was  a  handsome  one,  of  the  genuine  English  mould ;  per 
haps,  for  manhood,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  living  models.  His 
features  were  all  noble,  decided,  and  symmetrical.  The  tout  en 
semble  exhibited  boldness,  freedom,  sensibility ;  a  prompt  courage  ; 
an  eager  temper ;  a  generous,  though  perhaps  irritable  mood.  It 
was  full  of  blood  as  well  as  character ;  big  veins  swelling  on  his 
forehead,  while  the  sanguine  temperament  declared  itself,  in  warm 
flushes,  through  a  skin  somewhat  deeply  bronzed  with  the  intense 
fervor  of  the  tropical  sun.  He  had  the  light  brown  hair  and  blue 
eyes  of  the  Saxon  ;  the  great  frame,  large  as  well  as  vigorous ; 


THE   HAPPY-GO-LUCKIES.  25 

the  erect  carriage,  the  fearless  look  and  demeanor  of  the  Norman  ; 
and  just  enough  of  thought  and  care  in  the  general  expression  of 
his  face,  as  to  lift  the  merely  physical  manhood  into  the  dignity 
of  intellect  and  authority. 

Some  care  sate  upon  his  cheek,  and  might  be  guessed  from  the 
gradually  growing  lines  about  the  mouth  ;  which  was  nevertheless 
distinguished  equally  by  its  youth  and  beauty.  The  broad  and 
elevated  brow,  large  but  not  massive ;  the  quick,  intelligent,  and 
frequent  kindling  of  the  eye,  looking  out  blue  and  lively ;  but, 
like  an  April  sky,  subject  to  very  sudden  changes ;  the  prominent 
Roman  nose ;  the  full,  round  chin ;  sweetly  expressive,  yet  very 
decisive  mouth ;  —  all  declared  for  characteristics,  which,  whether 
we  regard  the  opinions  of  Lavater  or  Gall,  impress  us,  through 
the  features,  with  the  conviction  that  we  stand  in  the  presence  of 
a  brave,  manly  soul,  having  truthful  sympathies,  and  a  will  that 
must  everywhere  assert  command. 

His  person,  as  we  have  intimated,  was  framed  in  the  very  prod 
igality  of  nature  —  tall  of  height,  broad  of  shoulder,  and  equally 
athletic  and  symmetrical.  He  was  probably  thirty  years  old,  may 
have  been  thirty-five ;  but,  if  we  make  due  allowance  for  the 
effects  of  care,  strife,  and  authority,  in  situations  of  great  responsi 
bility,  we  shall  be  more  safe  in  assuming  him  to  be  no  more  than 
thirty.  He  was  clad  very  simply  in  loose  duck  trowsers,  and 
wore  a  sailor's  jacket,  but  these  were  of  very  fine  materials.  His 
bosom  was  ruffled  in  fine  linen,  curiously  embroidered ;  a  scarf  of 
blue,  worn  loosely,  and  secured  by  the  sailor-knot,  was  wrapped 
about  his  neck.  A  white  Panama  hat  of  ample  rim  and  high 
conical  crown,  of  the  time  of  Charles  the  First,  covered  his  head, 
and  was  encircled  with  a  light-blue  sash.  He  wore  boots  of  yel 
low  tanned  Spanish  leather.  A  baldric  of  blue  silk,  hanging  over 
his  shoulders,  contained  a  brace  of  pistols,  of  rather  long  barrel, 
wide  mouth,  and  richly- wrought  stocks,  inlaid  with  silver.  He 
carried,  at  this  moment,  no  other  weapons. 

You  have  the  man  before  you,  as  he  appears  to  us,  shaking  the 
hands  of  one  whose  approach,  address,  tone  of  voice,  and  general 
manner,  show  him  to  be  a  personal  retainer,  a  faithful  follower, 
an  old  long-tried  friend,  no  less  than  a  subordinate. 

"  And  so,  Jack,  you  have  had  a  taste  of  the  maroon  ?  How 
long  have  you  been  here  waiting  ?" 


26  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

•'  But  thirteen  days,  your  honor ;  but  it  seems  an  age  —  more 
than  a  month,  certainly.  I  left  Charleston " 

"  Not  yet,  Jack  —  wait  a  little  longer." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  the  face  of  the  superior  was  overcast  with 
a  graver  expression.  He  was  approached,  at  that  moment,  by 
another  person,  who  will  demand  our  special  attention,  even  as 
she  coerced  his. 

"  She !  a  woman !"  Yes.  Our  rover,  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky," 
is  richly  freighted.  Feast  your  palate  upon  the  choice  fruits  of 
summer  and  the  sun,  which  you  see  about  you ;  your  cupidity 
upon  the  choice  bales  of  silk  and  merchandises  of  East  and  West, 
which  are  hoarded  in  the  hold  below ;  but  let  your  eyes  feed  upon 
the,  beautiful  creature  who  now  challenges  our  attention. 

Very  beautiful,  indeed,  is  she,  after  the  Spanish  fashion.  We 
said  something  of  Cleopatra  in  the  preceding  chapter.  That  name 
is  suggestive  of  but  one  ideal ;  and  she  who  glides  before  us,  and 
lays  her  hand  intimately  upon  the  captain's  shoulder,  and  looks 
up  with  such  a  brilliant  tenderness  into  his  eyes,  embodies  that 
model  in  perfection.  She  is  not  a  large  creature  as  Cleopatra 
may  have  been  —  nay,  petite  rather — but  full  bosomed,  with  every 
look  speaking  passion  —  music's  passion  ;  the  sun's  passion  ;  the 
passion  of  storm  and  fire  upon  occasion,  ready  to  burst  forth 
without  warning  and  spoil  the  sky's  face,  and  rage  among  the 
flowers. 

She  is  brown  with  a  summer's  sun  ;  her  beauty  is  of  the  dark ; 
like  a  night  without  a  cloud,  far  up  in  the  sky,  flecked  with  sol 
itary  stars.  Her  features  are  not  regular,  but,  in  their  very 
caprice,  they  harmonize.  Hfr  large  black  eye  dilates  at  every 
glance,  reveals  every  emotion,  however  slight,  and  passes,  with 
the  rapidity  of  lightning,  from  smiles  to  tears ;  from  tenderness  ta 
a  passion,  which  may  easily  be  rage  as  well  as  love !  It  is  keen, 
restless,  jealously  watchful,  intense  in  every  phase.  The  nose  is 
small,  but  capable  of  sudden  dilation ;  the  lips  voluptuous,  pale, 
and  soon  shaken  with  a  tremulous  quiver,  whenever  the  feelings 
are  touched.  The  brow,  whiter  than  the  rest  of  the  face,  is 
marked  by  two  blue  veins  above  the  eyes,  that  become  swollen  at 
a  moment's  warning.  It  is  not  high,  nor  massive,  nor  yet  narrow ; 
the  eyebrows  are  thick  and  black,  the  lashes  long ;  and  when  the 
orbs  droop,  in  the  languor  of  satisfied  emotions,  they  form  &  beau 


THE    HAPPY-GO-LUCKiES.  27 

tii'ul  and  glossy  fringe  fit  for  hiding  the  fiery  jewels  that  bum 
beneath. 

An  easy  susceptibility  to  all  emotions ;  a  sleepless  intensity  of 
mood,  whatever  the  direction  of  the  will ;  great  energy  of  passion  ; 
an  ever-watchful  jealousy ;  feelings  that  have  never  learned  to 
brook  control  or  denial ;  a  temper  not  often  accustomed  to  re 
straint  ;  these  are  traits,  all  visible  at  a  glance,  to  him  who  can 
look  through  the  features,  in  partial  repose  at  present,  to  their  nat 
ural  susceptibilities,  and  the  moral  atmosphere  in  which  the  owner 
has  grown  to  womanhood. 

Her  person,  though  small,  is  perfect,  well  rounded,  neither  too 
full  nor  slender ;  a  model,  in  short,  for  that  style  of  beauty  which 
was  hers.  And  every  movement  was  graceful.  She  swam  rather 
than  walked.  Her  little  feet  were  never  heard,  in  the  thin,  open 
slippers  which  she  wore.  Her  costume  was  of  a  light,  gay  green 
silk  ;  her  bodice  of  the  finest  texture,  embroidered  openly  in  front, 
and  leaving  the  large,  well-formed  bosom  to  its  own  free  swell, 
under  the  pressure  of  perpetually  striving  emotions.  Her  dress, 
though  embroidered,  and  decorated  besides  with  little  cords  of 
gold  and  purple,  that  crossed  the  white  openings  in  the  silken 
dress,  was  worn  loosely,  rather  after  a  Grecian  than  an  Italian  or 
Spanish  fashion ;  sufficiently  showing  the  perfection  of  the  form, 
without  absolutely  defining  it ;  certainly  without  embarrassing,  or 
tending  in  the  slightest  degree  to  curb  its  movements. 

Hair  —  such  a  mass,  all  raven  black,  which,  loosed,  would 
sweep  the  earth  behind  her  as  she  went  —  eyes,  mouth,  form, 
complexion,  —  all  seemed  to  carry  you  back  to  the  gay  season 
when,  in  the  halls  of  Zegri  and  Abencerrage,  the  maidens  of  Gra 
nada  borrowed  lustre  from  the  sun  to  light  up  the  darkness,  and 
made  the  moon  and  stars  tributary  to  passions  which  could  tol 
erate  no  stronger  light,  but  which  luxuriated  in  such  as  theirs. 

Verily,  she  was  of  Moresco,  quite  as  much  as  Spanish  blood ; 
and  you  are  sure  of  this  when  you  hear  her  called  "  Zulieme.** 
A  little  poniard  in  a  sheath  of  green  embossed  leather,  with  richly- 
jewelled  hilt,  worn  in  her  girdle,  seems  to  help  the  faith  in  her 
Moorish  origin.  She  is  dark,  but  comely,  like  the  beauty  sung  by 
Solomon ;  and  that  wise  person  was  understood  to  have  quite  an 
eye  for  a  fine  woman.  She  was  evidently  of  the  or  ler  which  he 
preferred  to  crown  with  flowers  and  music. 


28  THE   CASSIQUE  OF  KIATV  iH. 

But  —  but !  ah !  —  but  hereafter.  There  will  be  a  time  for  the 
qualifications  —  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow! 

Noiv  !  We  see  nothing  but  the  beautiful ;  a  sensuous  beauty  — 
a  thing  solely  for  the  eye  :  such  as  Canova  makes  of  that  exquisite 
idiot  whom  he  calls  "  The  Venus." 

And,  in  all  her  beauty,  costumed  as  we  have  shown  her,  Zulieme 
approaches  her  lord,  and,  with  one  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  her 
great  black  eyes  peering  into  his,  she  exclaims,  in  tolerable  En 
glish,  just  sufficiently  broken  and  imperfect  to  show  that  she  is  of 
another  nation,  and  to  occasion  a  pleasant  interest  by  the  discov 
ery  —  she  exclaims  :  — 

"  Why,  Harry,  how  is  this  ?  Molyneaux  tells  me  that  this  is 
not  Charleston !' 

"  I  should  say  not,  Zulieme.  This  is  a  wild  region,  uninhab 
ited  almost,  except  by  savages." 

"  But  why  have  you  put  in  here,  Harry?" 

"  It  is  necessary, "  he  answered,  somewhat  coldly. 

"  But  why  necessary  ?  What  is  to  be  done  here  ?  Molyneaux 
says  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  here ;  that  there  is  nobody 
to  see,  nobody  to  trade  with,  and  I  want  to  go  to  Charleston.  I 
wouldn't  have  come  this  voyage  had  you  not  promised  me  I  should 
go  to  Charleston.  Molyneaux  tells  me " 

"  Tell  me  no  more,  if  you  please,  of  what  Mr.  Molyneaux  has 
told  you ;  and  if  you  are  wise,  Zulieme,  you  will  take  your  future 
information,  as  to  my  purposes  and  conduct,  from  no  other  lips 
than  my  own." 

"But  I  am  not  wise,  Harry,  and  you  sha'n't  make  me  wise; 
and  how,  if  nobody  tells  me  anything  but  you,  and  you  never  tell 
me  anything !" 

"  I  tell  you  all,  in  respect  to  myself  and  my  proceedings,  Zu 
lieme,  which  I  deem  it  proper  for  you  to  know.  Who  undertakes 
to  tell  you  more,  in  this  ship,  assumes  a  privilege  which  I  shall 
certainly  arrest  at  the  earliest  moment." 

The  gravity  had  become  severity. 

"  Oh  !  do  n't  blame  Mr.  Molyneaux,  now ;  if  anybody  is  at  fault, 
it's  me.  1  asked  Mr.  Molyneaux,  and  he  answered;  and  there 's 
no  harm  in  that,  Harry." 

"  I  do  n't  know  that  /"  was  the  answer,  slowly  spoken,  and  with 
the  air  of  one  who  muses  upon  some  other  subject. 


THE   HAPPY-GO-LUC£IES.  29 

"  Yes,  but  you  do  know,  Harry ;  and  when  /  want  to  know 
something,  I  will  ask,  and  somebody  must  answer." 

"  Ask  of  me,  then,  Zulieme." 

"  Well,  but  you  won't  answer  me  always." 

"  Then,  it  is  not  proper  that  you  should  seek  from  another  the 
information  that  I  refuse.  You  ought  to  know,  in  such  cases,  that 
the  knowledge  you  seek  is  withheld  for  some  good  reason." 

"But  why  —  what  reason?  And  why  should  Mr.  Molyneaux 
know  things  that  I  mustn't  know?  I'm  your  wife,  Harry,  am  I 
not?" 

"You  are  my  wife,  Zulieme,"  was  the  gravely-spoken  answer; 
and  the  manner  did  not  show  that  there  wras  any  satisfaction  felt 
in  making  the  acknowledgment ;  "  and  as  my  wife,  Zulieme,  you 
must  content  yourself  with  what  /am  pleased  to  tell  you  of  the 
affairs  of  th^f.  ship.  Mr.  Molyneaux  is  an  officer  of  this  ship  ;  and 
my  wife  must  learn  to  know,  if  he  does  not,  that  his  duty  is  to 
keep  its  secrets.  If  your  business  were  the  management  of  the 
vessel,  then  it  would  be  your  right  to  know ;  but " 

"  Oh !  I  don't  care  about  the  ship's  affairs,  Harry ;  it's  my  own 
affairs ;  and  I  ask  you  why  you  put  in  here,  in  this  wild  place, 
when  we  were  to  go  to  Charleston  ?  It  was  to  go  to  Charleston 
that  I  agreed  to  leave  New  Providence.  You  told  me  that  we 
would  go  there ;  and  you  promised  to  stop  at  Cuba,  yet  you  never 
stopped,  or  only  for  a  moment,  and  I  never  had  a  sight  of  Havana, 
and  you  know  what  I  wanted  to  see  there.  Ah,  the  dear  Cuba  1 
the  sights,  and  the  bullfights,  and  the  dances !  And  now,  it  seems, 
we  are  not  to  go  to  Charleston " 

"  Who  says  that,  Zulieme  ?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Molyneaux  said " 

A  stern,  impatient  look  and  gesture  cut  short  the  communica 
tion  ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  captain  glanced  quickly  and  angrily 
from  the  lady,  in  the  direction  of  a  person  who  stood  near  the 
companion-way,  and  who  seemed,  at  that  moment,  to  have  the 
ship  in  charge. 

This  was  Mr.  or  rather  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  so  often  referred 
to  by  the  lady.  He  was  a  young  man,  probably  the  youngest  in 
the  vessel,  of  middle  size,  slight  build,  but  apparently  of  great 
activity.  His  face,  which  was  turned  toward  the  parties  at  the 
moment,  was  effeminate,  smooth,  even  boyish  ;  but  its  expression 


30  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

was  that  of  cai-eiess  daring,  amounting  to  effrontery.  He  be 
longed  to  the  proverbial  "  order  of  the  Bashful  Irishmen."  There 
was  a  half  smile  upon  his  countenance,  as  his  eye  met  the  glance 
of  his  superior,  which  seemed  significant  with  a  peculiar  meaning. 

"  Did  you  call,  sir  ?"  he  asked,  somewhat  indifferently,  as  his 
eye  caught  the  expression  in  that  of  his  superior. 

"  No,  sir  —  no !  —  and  yet  I  did  call,  Mr.  Molyneaux.  One 
word,  sir." 

The  other  approached  at  a  moderate  pace,  though  without  any 
apparent  interest.  As  he  drew  nigh,  the  captain  said :  — 

"  Mr.  Molyneaux,  you  will  please  understand  that  it  is  not  by 
any  means  necessary  that  you  should  communicate  to  anybody 
but  myself  the  courses  and  direction  of  this  ship.  She  may  steer 
east,  west,  north,  or  south,  and  all  on  board  must  submit  without 
question,  or  expectation  of  answer,  to  the  orders  which  I  give  on 
this  and  all  other  subjects.  No  answer,  sir,  if  you  please.  I  have 
no  purpose  to  converse  now ;  only  to  inform,  that  we  may  pre 
vent  mistakes  in  future." 

The  slightest  possible  smile  might  be  seen  upon  the  lips  of  the 
lieutenant  as  he  touched  his  hat  and  receded.  But  a  fierce,  pas 
sionate  stare  on  the  part  of  the  lady  betrayed  equal  astonishment 
and  indignation,  and  threatened  a  sudden  outbreak. 

"  How,  Harry,  do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Molyneaux  is  not  to 
answer  my  questions  ?" 

"  Exactly !  He  is  to  answer  no  questions,  of  anybody,  in  rela 
tion  to  the  working  of  this  ship,  its  course,  objects,  or  interests. 
These  are  sacred  even  from  you,  and  do  you  not  attempt  to  per 
suade  any  officer  to  a  neglect  or  breach  of  duty.  Ask  me  what 
you  want  to  know,  and  if  it  be  proper  that  you  should  know,  /will 
answer  you." 

"  Look  you,  Harry,  none  of  your  haughty  ways  with  me.  T 
won't  stand  it.  You  sha'n't  treat  me  as  if  I  were  only  a  child. 
I  must  and  will  know,  Harry.  You  said  positively  we  were  to 
come  to  Charleston,  and  if  you  hadn't  said  that,  I  never  should 
have  consented  to  leave  Providence.  You  promised  me,  Harry, 
to  carry  me  to  Havana  and  Charleston  both,  and  now  you  bring 
me  here  to  this  wild  heathen  country,  where  there  are  wolves  and 
tigers,  and  the  red  savages.  I  say,  I  will  know,  Harry,  whether 
you  mean  to  keep  your  word,  and  carry  me  to  Charleston." 


THE   HAPPY-GO-LUCKIES.  31 

A  very  angry  expression  crossed  for  a  moment  the  face  of  the 
superior.  You  could  see  that  it  needed  little  for  a  storm  —  a 
sudden  burst  of  thunder;  but  he  subdued  the  tempest  with  a 
severe  exertion  of  will,  and  in  tones  not  merely  sober,  but  even 
gentle,  though  firm,  he  answered :  — 

"  Zulieme,  no  more  of  this  at  present ;  whether  I  shall  go  to 
Charleston  or  not,  depends  upon  intelligence  which  I  am  to  find 
here." 

"  And  from  whom,  Harry,  in  this  savage  place  ?  You  are  only 
cheating  me,  I  know." 

"  You  saw  the  person  who  met  me  from  this  shore  ?  But,  it 
does  not  matter.  It  should  not.  It  should  be  enough  for  you, 
Zulieme,  that  I  have  answered  you.  I  do  iiot  relish  this  too  close 
questioning.  You  must  learn  to  believe  what  I  tell  you,  and 
submit." 

The  lady  pouted,  and  stamped  her  little  feet  impatiently ;  her 
companion  scarcely  heeded  it,  as  he  went  on :  — 

"  No  more  of  this  impatience,  Zulieme.  Be  content  with  the 
assurance  that  I  have  duties  to  others,  in  fulfilling  which,  I  am 
obliged  to  put  in  here  —  which  may  carry  me  to  Charleston  — 
probably  will ;  but  which  may  require  that  I  shall  steer  in  any 
other  direction.  And,  as  my  wife,  you  must  understand  that  my 
duties  involve  yours,  and  must  learn  to  submit,  without  complaint 
or  question,  to  the  necessities  which  I  have  to  recognize.  Go 
below  now,  or  amuse  yourself  on  deck  —  do  what  you  wish  — 
while  I  see  Jack  Belcher,  and  procure  the  information  which  shall 
decide  my  course." 

"  And  I  say  again,  Harry  Calvert,  that  you  treat  me  like  a 
child !"  exclaimed  the  spoiled  beauty,  passionately. 

"  Ay,  and  you  are  a  child,  Zulieme !  What  else !  what  else !" 
This  was  said  very  gravely  and  sadly,  but  gently,  even  tenderly.— 
"But  go  below,  and  beware  how  you  make  me  appear  ridiculous 
in  the  sight  of  these  rude  men.  There  are  eyes  upon  us,  which 
must  see  in  me  nothing  but  the  master.  Do  not  let  your  folly 
undo  my  authority !" 

"  But  why  may  I  not  go  on  shore,  Harry  ?"  changing  her  tone 
in  an  instant.  "  Why  not  have  supper  under  those  great  trees, 
and  fruits,  and  music?  Oh!  it  will  be  so  pretty,  and  so  nice, 
Harry." 


32  THF   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  !  —  why  not  ?  Do  so,  Zulieme.  Gi  e  the  or 
ders,  and  set  your  maid  to  work.  Call  Phipps  to  help.  Phipps  1 
Phipps !" 

Phipps  was  the  cabin-boy. 

And,  so  speaking,  Captain  Calvert  was  moving  away,  when  the 
lady  caught  his  arm : 

"  But  is  there  no  danger  of  the  red  savages,  Harry  ?  They 
say  your  savages  of  Carolina  are  a  fiercer  race  than  ours.  They 
eat  Christians,  don't  they?" 

"  I  have  already  got  a  scouting  party  in  the  wood,  Zulieme, 
under  Lieutenant  Eckles.  There  is  no  danger.  Belcher  has 
been  here,  alone,  for  more  than  a  week." 

"Oh!  how  frightful,  and  nobody  with  him!  Oh!  I  should 
prefer  the  savages  to  the  silence  of  these  lonely  woods.  But,  go 
'long,  Harry.  Go  'long,  now ;  while  I  set  Sylvia  and  Phipps  to 
work.  We  shall  have  such  a  nice  supper,  and  music,  and  a 
dance." 

And  she  lilted  and  warbled  as  she  spoke.  Then  calling,  "  Sylvia, 
Sylvia !"  to  the  maid  below,  and  clapping  her  hands,  with  a  shrill 
scream  for  Phipps,  the  lady,  in  a  moment  after,  darted  down  the 
companion-way,  seeming  altogether  to  forget,  in  her  new  fancies, 
that  she  was  the  unhappy  proprietor  of  one  of  those  wretched 
husbands  who  refuse  to  answer  impertinent  questions. 

Mr.  Molyneaux  glanced  at  her  retiring  figure ;  his  eyes  then 
followed  that  of  the  captain.  The  latter  joined  Jack  Belcher  on 
the  headlands,  and  proceeded  with  him  into  the  thicket  and  out 
of  sight.  Upon  the  lips  of  Mr.  Molyneaux  there  sat  the  same 
smile  with  which  he  had  met  the  sudden  and  stern  glance  of  his 
principal.  It  was  cool,  quiet,  full  of  effrontery  and  self-esteem. 
Yet,  how  feminine  were  all  his  features.  And  how  should  he  — 
so  seemingly  effeminate,  and  evidently  the  youngest  person  in  the 
ship  —  how  should  he  have  risen  to  the  rank  of  second  officer  ? 

That  smile  told  the  whole  story.  Girlish  though  he  seemed, 
he  had  that  degree  of  audacity  and  resolution  which  could  carry 
him  through  scenes  from  which  greater  frames  and  tougher  sin 
ews,  and  more  hardy-looking  persons,  would  have  shrunk  in  dis 
may.  And  he  would  go  into  the  melee  as  to  a  feast.  And  the 
very  effeminacy  of  his  person  deceived  his  enemies.  Under  that 
girlish  and  delicate  exterior,  he  concealed  powerful  muscl^  -  ' 


THE   HAPPY-GO-LUCKIE8.  38 

well-knit  limbs,  and  a  lithe  activity,  which,  in   the  moment  of 
danger,  left  nearly  all  others  behind ! 

But  why  did  he  smile  as  his  captain  went  from  sight  ?  What 
is  the  secret  in  that  sinister  expression  ?  And  did  his  superior 
feel,  or  fancy,  the  occult  meaning  which  it  seemed  to  cover  ? 

It  did  not  please  him,  evidently.  There  was  an  instinct  at 
work,  no  doubt,  which  made  Captain  Calvert  feel  that  there  was 
something  unpleasant  in  that  smile  of  his  second  officer.  But  he 
is  not  the  man  to  brood  over  the  occult.  And  he  has  other  cares 
on  hand  at  this  moment;  and,  forgetting  the  whole  scene  just 
over,  it  was  with  some  eagerness  that  he  joined  Jack  Belcher  on 
the  shore,  and  bade  him  lead  into  the  thick  cover  of  the  forest. 

2* 


34  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   III. 

AGONIES    OF   A   LOST   HOPE. 

"  Tidings  have  come  to  me  that  on  my  house  a  bolt  hath  fallen  at  mid- 
nigb/,  and  left  ashes,  where  I  had  left  delights,  in  precious  babes,  and  one 
that  watched  them." 

JACK  BELCHER  led  the  way  for  his  superior  into  that  clos 
covert  where  we  have  followed  the  former  once  before.     Here  the 
captain  threw  himself  down  upon  the  little  sea-chest  which  carried 
all  Jack's  stores,  while  the  latter  leaned  against  one  of  the  great 
trees  that  helped  to  pillar  and  roof  his  sylvan  habitation. 

"  Well,  Jack,"  said  Calvert,  impatiently,  "  you  have  aeen  the 
governor  ?  Does  he  write  ?" 

"  No  indeed,  sir ;  I  think  he's  a  little  afraid  of  putting  things  to 
paper.  He 's  scary  !  —  says  '  the  devil 's  to  pay !'  that  the  king 's 
been  bullied  by  the  Spaniard,  and  our  business  is  to  be  stopped 
altogether.  There's  to  be  no  more  winking  at  our  work  in  the 
West  Indies.  The  Spanish  embassador  demands  that  when  an 
English  sailor  shouts  out,  '  No  peace  beyond  the  line/  he 's  to  be 
tucked  up,  out  of  sight,  in  a  jiffy,  and  made  to  swing,  just  where 
you  find  him,  whether  on  sea  or  land.  There's  to  be  no  more 
fair  trading  on  any  account,  and  the  governor  seems  half  disposed 
to  close  accounts  with  you  for  ever." 

The  fellow  paused. 

«Well  — well!  goon." 

"  Well,  sir,  there's  little  more  to  tell  you.  I  had  some  work  to 
get  to  a  private  talk  with  the  governor.  But  when  I  showed  him 
your  ring,  and  gave  him  the  letter,  he  let  out  free  enough.  Only, 
I  couldn't  get  him  to  write.  He  says  the  council  watches  him. 
But  he'll  wink,  I'm  a-thinking,  an 3  not  look  too  closely  where  he 
shouldn't.  That  is,  if  your  honor  takes  care  to  give  him  the 
right  kind  of  eye-water." 


AGONIES   OF   A   LOST   HOPE.  85 

"Yes!  yes!  I  understand  him!  But  how  are  /he  citizens? 
You  went  among  them  ?  You  saw  Stillwater  and  Franks  ?" 

"All  right  in  that  quarter.  Stillwater  says  the  governor's  a 
cross  between  a  fool  and  rogue.  He  has  the  conscience  for  the 
trade,  but  wants  the  pluck.  Frank  says:  "Come  on;  there's 
just  as  good  custom  now  as  when  the  king  had  Christian  bowels. 
As  for  the  people,  I  see  no  difference.  They  don't  see  the  harm 
or  the  wrong  in  riddling  a  Spanish  galleon,  or,  for  that  matter,  a 
Frenchman ;  they  hate  'em  both,  and  look  upon  'em,  sensibly,  as 
natural  enemies.  They  will  buy  whatever  you've  got  to  sell,  and 
ask  no  question  about  the  sort  of  flag  you  pulled  down  to  get  at 
the  goods.  I  don't  see  that  you'll  have  any  trouble  from  them." 

"  Then  we  've  nothing  to  fear  from  the  governor.  If  such  be 
the  temper  of  the  people,  Quarry  will  give  us  no  trouble.  As  for 
Charles  Stuart,  he's  a  fool.  As  if  the  Spaniard  and  Frenchman 
were  not  the  natural  enemies  of  England.  As  if  every  captured 
galleon  was  not  gain  of  strength  as  well  as  wealth  to  us.  Fool  I 
fool !  like  his  father ;  and,  like  him,  bought  and  sold,  to  the  shame 
and  loss  of  England.  But  what  said  the  governor  to  my  coming 
into  port  ?" 

"  lie  hemmed  and  hawed  —  said  it  was  very  dangerous ;  he 
couldn't  say;  you  might  take  the  risk  if  you  pleased,  but  'twas 
your  own  risk.  He  could  n't  say  what  would  be  the  upshot  of  it ; 
he  said  council  was  monstrous  prying  into  the  business." 

"  Any  armed  vessel  on  the  station  ?  —  king's  ship,  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  know,  sir.  No,  not  that  I  could  hear.  The  Lime,  Pearl, 
and  Shoreham,  were  all  on  the  Virginia  coast ;  the  Phoenix  and 
Squirrel  at  New  York ;  the  Rose  at  Boston ;  the  Winchelsea — " 

"  At  Jamaica,  we  know  —  and  so  is  the  Adventure ;  did  you 
hear  nothing  of  the  Scarborough  ?" 

"  She's  a  thirty-gun  ship  ?  There  was  a  report  of  one  that  had 
been  on  the  coast,  but  I  didn't  get  her  name.  It's  certain  there 
was  no  king's  ship  on  the  Carolina  coast  when  I  left ;  but  the 
governor  said  one  might  be  expected  soon.  He  was  scary  enough, 
and  talked  a  good  deal  about  character,  and  responsibility,  and 
dignity,  and  his  office,  as  if  he  hadn't  buttoned  'em  up  long  ago, 
and  covered  'em  out  of  sight  with  Spanish  doubloons.  I  reckon 
there's  some  change  in  the  council,  sir,  that  makes  him  so  scary : 
there's  one  person  in  the  council  now,  sir,  that  wa'n't  in  it  before; 


36  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

and  the  name  is  one,  sir,  that'll  raise  your  hair  a  little.     It's  a 
Major  Berkeley. 

"Major  Berkeley!"  cried  the  captain,  starting  up  and  ap 
proaching  the  subordinate. 

"Yes,  sir;  but  what  Berkeley  I  couldn't  find  out.  I  could 
n't  get  to  see  him,  and  the  governor  never  told  me  of  him  at  all. 
Of  course,  I  thought  directly  of  your  own  brother,  and  how  cu 
rious  'twould  be  if  he  was  removed  to  Carolina.  But  I  could  find 
out  nothing  but  this,  that  he's  an  Edward  Berkeley  too;  they 
call  him  Sir  Edward,  seeing  that  he's  made  a  cassique,  or  lord,  in 
this  country,  and  he's  got  a  family  —  wife  and  children !" 

"Edward  Berkeley!  and  wife!  and  —  did  you  say  children?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  he 's  got  children  —  or  a  child  —  one  or  more.  They 
told  me  wife  and  children." 

"  Children !  and  by  her  !  O  God !  and  I  have  lived  for  this ! 
and  Olive  is  a  mother !  a  mother !  and  her  children  are  not  mine  I 
And  what  am  I,  and  where  am  I !  after  all  these  struggles,  this 
toil  and  danger  in  a  doubtful  service;  denounced  by  the  laws; 
deserted  by  my  sovereign ;  an  exile  —  perhaps  an  outlaw !  Ah  I 
God !  But  this,  this  might  have  been  spared  me !" 

And  our  cruiser  strode  the  wood  as  he  thus  passionately  spoke- 
and  his  fingers  were  thrust  into  his  hair  and  clenched  with  vi 
olence,  while  his  whole  frame  shook  with  the  convulsions  of  his 
soul. 

"  Don't,  sir;  don't,  your  honor;  don't  take  on  so,  dear  master. 
It  may  not  be  your  brother,  after  all." 

"  'Tis  he !  I  feel  it !  They  were  wedded,  I  know.  That  an 
cient  Jezebel,  her  mother !  She  has  done  it  all.  She  has  torn 
us  asunder  for  ever.  Olive's  heart  was  mine  —  mine  only.  Bui 
what  are  hearts  to  selfish  mothers  ?  What  a  woman's  heart  to  a 
mother's  ambition  ?  What  a  younger  brother's  heart,  when  he 
who  claims  the  birthright  requires  its  sacrifice  ?  It  is  he  —  it  is 
Edward  Berkeley;  and  he  is  come  hither  now,  having  robbed 
me  of  all  that  made  life  precious,  perhaps  to  rob  me  of  life 
also  —  to  bring  me  to  an  ignominious  death !  Poor  Olive !  with 
thy  depth  of  soul,  with  thy  singleness  of  passion,  to  be  thus  bar 
tered.  And  —  children  too  1  His  children !  his  children  !  Oh ! 
Edward  Berkeley,  thou  hast  robbed  me  of  something  more  than 
life !" 


AGONIES   OF   A   LOST    HOPE.  37 

"  Master,  dear  master,  remember  —  you  have  now  a  wife  of 
your  own." 

"  Ah  !  do  I  not  know  it,  Belcher  ?  Great  Heavens  !  and  such 
a  wife  !  a  doll !  a  painted  baby  !  a  poor  child-creature,  whose  very 
smile  mocks  me  with  a  cruel  memory  of  all  that  is  lost  to  me  for 
ever.  True,  Olive  was  lost  ere  I  wedded  her.  Yet  why  should 
I  have  wedded  her?  Better  to  have  made  the  heart  live  on  the 
bitter  memciy.  Yet,  there  was  excuse.  I  owed  much  to  this 
child's  care  of  me.  And  in  what  madness  of  soul  did  I  seek  in 
another  the  recompense  for  that  most  miserable  loss !" 

"  Alas,  your  honor,  is  n't  it  too  late  now  to — " 

"  Ah  !  as  if  that  were  not  the  worst  agony  of  all !  There  is  the 
venom  in  the  wound.  It  is  too  late.  No  more,  Jack !  no  more ! 
Olive  Masterton  has  children,  and  they  are  not  mine ;  and  these 
children  will  beget  that  love  which  did  not  beget  themselves. 
I  must  not  think.  Poor,  poor  Olive !  But  I  will  see  her !  I 
will  see  her  once  more !" 

"  Oh  !  sir,  better  not !" 

"  I  will  see  her,  if  I  die  for  it !  I  can  not  help  it.  The  Fates, 
if  she  is  indeed  in  Charleston,  have  thrown  her  in  my  way.  They 
decree  that  we  shall  meet  once  more.  I  will  gaze  upon  her  face, 
though  she  may  not  see  mine.  I  will  startle  her  soul  with  my 
voice,  though  I  may  not  listen  to  hers.  I  will  look  upon  the  face 
of  her  child — her  child  !  Oh  !  Olive  Masterton,  hadst  thou  been 
Srm,  strong,  devoted  —  hadst  thou  kept  thy  faith,  and  had  faith  in 
mine  —  this  had  never  been  !  The  cruel  arts  of  thy  cruel  mother 
had  never  prevailed  to  tear  our  hearts  asunder,  to  blight  hope  and 
heart,  and  yield  thee,  and  yield  me,  to  embraces  which  are  loath 
some  to  both.  Ay,  loathsome  to  thee,  I  swear  it ;  unless,  indeed, 
thou  wert  all  a  lie,  like  that  artful  fiend,  thy  mother !" 

"  Master,  dear  master !" 

"  Oh  !  Jack,  I  am  weak  —  weak  unto  death  !"  cried  the  strong 
man,  throwing  himself  upon  the  ground,  while  a  deep  groan  issued 
from  his  chest.  The  faithful  follower  hung  over  him. 

"  Dear  master,  give  not  way." 

"  I  will  not,  Jack.  I  will  be  strong.  It  is  too  late.  Ay,  some 
thing  is  too  late.  But,  I  must  and  will  see  her.  Do  not  fear  me, 
Jack,  I  will  be  calm  —  calm  as  the  grave  when  it  closes  its  heavy 
jaws  over  the  wreck  of  best  affections.  Olive  !  Olive  Masterton  ! 


38  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

thou  hast  crushed  me  to  the  earth,  in  thy  own  wretcued  lack  *f 
love." 

"  Oh  !  Master,  she  lacked  not  that !  But  what  could  she  do  ? 
You  gone  —  lost,  perhaps  —  and  that  old  one  at  her  from  morning 
till  night.  A  mother  too  !  and  so  cunning.  You  don't  think  what 
the  poor  girl  had  to  suffer.  I  know  something  of  it,  master.  I 
heard  —  I  saw!  and  it  isn't  for  a  young  girl  to  stand  a  mother's 
prayers  and  pleadings  long.  And  they  were  very  poor :  and  you 
don't  know  how  they  were  made  to  feel  it  —  and  they  who  had 
been  used  to  live  in  such  grandeur." 

u  Ay !  she  was  sold ;  and  that  Edward  Berkeley  should  be 
the  man  to  take  advantage  of  her  poverty,  her  dependency,  her 
mother's  arts,  and  my  absence." 

"  Oh,  sir,  as  I  'm  a  living  man,  I  do  n't  believe  your  brother 
ever  knew  of  your  love  for  her." 

"  He  must  have  known  —  must  have  heard !" 

"  He  might  suspect,  but  I  don't  think  he  knew,  and  that  old  hag 
never  let  him  know.  She  kept  the  truth  from  him.  I  'm  sure  of 
it.  You  recollect,  he  was  on  the  continent  all  the  while  when  you 
were  with  her.  You  were  gone  before  he  came  home." 

"  But  my  letter  ?" 

"  Ten  to  one  he  never  got  it.  You  never  got  any  answer. 
Oh !  sir,  do  not  suspect  your  brother." 

"  Why  was  the  marriage  so  hurried,  before  I  could  return  ?" 

"'Twas  his  passion,  sir,  and  the  mother's  arts.  Besides, 
'twa'n't  so  much  hurry,  either,  since  you  remember,  we  were 
eleven  months  getting  across  from  Panama,  owing  to  your  dread 
ful  sickness." 

"  Ah  !  that  horrid  time !  and  its  more  horrid  consequences ! 
'T  was  the  terrible  news  from  England  that  broke  me  down,  and 
made  me  deplore  the  cares  that  saved  me  in  spite  of  that  pesti 
lential  fever.  And  then  it  was,  that,  in  a  fatal  hour  —  in  my  de 
spair  and  vexation  on  the  one  hand,  and  in  a  false  notion  of  grati 
tude  on  the  other  —  I  committed  the  worst  of  all  my  errors  :  gave 
my  hand  to  this  foolish  child  ;  married  a  woman  who  could  move 
passion,  but  not  love  —  a  toy,  not  a  woman ;  a  mere  trifler  with 
the  heart  that  would  like  to  honor  —  if  nothing  more  —  like  to 
believe  her  worthy  of  some  sympathy,  if  not  of  mine." 

"  But  she  loves  you,  sir.     Believe  me,  sir,  she  loves  you  I" 


A'SONIES   OP   A    LOST   HOPE.  39 

"  Ay,  perhaps,  as  far  as  she  can  know  to  love ;  but  what  a 
child  —  how  weak,  how  vain,  how  frivolous  !  a  continual  caprice, 
that  vexes  even  in  its  fondness ;  that  makes  you  revolt,  even 
when  passion  most  persuades  to  tenderness.  Ah !  Jack,  I  have 
sacrificed  a  solace  in  a  frenzy.  I  might  have  cherished  pride 
even  in  disappointment.  I  have  shut  myself  out  from  the  conso 
lations  which  a  cherished  faith  might  have  brought  me  even  in 
moments  of  despair.  What  had  I  to  do  with  a  child  passion, 
when  I  was  sure  of  a  noble  woman's  love  ?" 

"  But  that  was  lost  and  gone,  my  dear  master." 

"  No !  I  had  lost  a  hope,  but  not  the  life  in  which  the  hope  had 
birth.  I  had  lost  the  woman  I  had  loved  —  not  her  affections. 
Her  heart  was  mine  —  never  less  mine  than  when  she  was  wrapt 
in  the  embraces  of  another.  And  upon  this  I  might  have  lived 
To  brood  upon  the  precious  memory  would  have  been  a  solace, 
when  passion  could  proffer  none.  And  that  I  should  be  so  led  by 
passion  —  I  that  had  suffered  in  such  a  school  of  suffering !  —  that 
a  mere  whim,  a  caprice,  a  fancy,  should  have  led  me  thus  into  a 
bondage  whose  galling  chains  eat  into  the  very  soul,  and  make 
every  thought  a  torture." 

"'Twas  gratitude,  sir  —  'twas  a  good  feeling  that  made  you 
marry  the  senora." 

"  Tell  me  nothing  of  gratitude,  Jack  Belcher ;  as  if  any  grat 
itude  should  justify  such  a  sacrifice — justify  vows  which  neither 
can  keep  or  value." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  do  think  the  senora  loves  you.  She 's  true  to  you, 
sir." 

"  Ah,  yes!  to  be  sure  she's  true!" 

"  How  she  did  watch  your  sick-bed !  how  she  did  nurse  you 
when  your  life  hung  upon  a  thread  —  when  even  I  gave  up  — 
when  nobody  had  a  thought  you  could  live;  and  only  thought  how 
to  save  you  pain  in  your  dying  hours !  How  she  watched  and 
hoped  through  all,  and  was  never  wearied  ;  and  kept  bathing  your 
head  and  hands  in  the  vinegar ;  and  kept  the  cooling  plantain-leaf 
upon  your  forehead  ;  and,  when  her  mother  said  you  would  die, 
who  wept  and  swore  you  shouldn't  die;  and  who  made  all  others 
bend  to  her  —  and  she  still  nothing  but  a  child.  Oh!  sir,  that 
was  love  —  and  it  saved  you  ;  and  though  she  hasn't  the  ways  of 
our  English,  yet,  sir,  I  do  think  her  heart  is  full  of  love  for  you, 


40  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

and  she's  as  true  to  you,  though  she  does  vex  you  so  much,  aa 
any  woman  of  England  could  be." 

"  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  But  oh !  Jack  Belcher,  though  I  feel 
and  believe  all  that  you  say,  yet  it  brings  no  relief.  There  is  no 
consolation  in  it.  Better  were  she  wholly  the  idle  butterfly  crea 
ture  that  she  seems ;  better  false,  hollow,  heartless,  as  she  is  vain, 
vexing,  weak,  and  capricious.  Then,  I  could  fling  her  off — 
whistle  her  down  the  wind  with  scorn  —  and  surrender  myself 
wholly  to  the  bitter  memory  of  that  early  passion,  which  was  a 
truth,  a  faith,  a  sweet  reality  of  love,  no  matter  what  the  denial 
and  the  loss,  instead  of  fruit  and  blossom !  But  leave  me  for  a 
ivhile,  Jack.  I  must  be  alone.  Let  me  lie  here  in  the  solitude. 
I  would  think  —  think  until  I  forget,  if  that  be  now  possible." 

•'Will  you  take  some  of  the  Jamaica,  sir?     It's  a  good  thin 
for  a  solitary  man." 

Jack's  ideas  of  solace  had  something  in  them  very  decidedly 
English.  He  honestly  believed  that  the  seat  of  the  soul  is  the 
abdomen,  and  that  Jamaica  was  the  divining  power  which  could 
reach  it. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Jack.  Nothing.  Leave  me  for  a  while. 
Join  me  in  an  hour,  when  I  shall  be  better  able  to  talk  with  you 
of  ship's  affairs." 

The  subordinate  said  no  more,  but,  with  a  look  that  still  lin 
gered,  the  faithful  fellow  made  his  way  out  of  the  thicket,  leaving 
his  superior  to  brood,  with  what  philosophy  he  might,  over  the 
rash  impulses  which,  in  a  moment  of  weakness,  had  led  him  to 
voluntary  fetters,  which  now,  to  use  his  own  strong  phraseology, 
were  eating  into  his  very  soul.  He  had  simply  done  what  is  done 
by  thousands  daily — 


Had  embraced 


The  shadow  for  the  substance,  in  his  passion ; 
And  been  requited,  for  the  wretched  folly, 
By  thorn  in  pillow,  which  forbade  all  sleep 
To  thought  —  all  waking  into  Hope  at  dawn." 


LOVK   AFTER   A    FOREIGN    FASHIOh  41 


CHAPTER   IV. 

LOVE    AFTER   A    FOREIGN   FASHION. 

"  Call  you  this  love  ? 

This  phantasy,  this  sighing,  these  sad  looks  ! 
Oh  fie  !     Love  's  like  the  zephyr  to  the  roses, 
That  comes  with  happiest  wing,  and  sings  at  meeting  ; 
Meeting  and  parting  sings,  and  so  dreams  joyous 
Of  still  fresh  meetings  with  as  happy  flowers." 

IT  is  part  of  youth's  business  to  sport  and  play,  dance  and  sir»g, 
just  as  certainly  as  to  work  and  grow.  The  work  and  growth 
depend  quite  as  much  upon  the  play  as-  the  food  and  nurture. 
And  we  must  not  look  too  severely  upon  exuberances  which  be 
long  to  the  instincts.  We  must  let  youth  rollick  at  due  seasons, 
just  as  we  suffer  young  colts  to  kick  up  their  heels  upon  a  com 
mon  ;  and  we  must  not  see  too  austerely  that  this  kicking  up  of 
the  heels,  whether  of  the  human  animal  or  the  young  horse,  is 
calculated  to  exhibit  them  in  uncouth  or  ridiculous  attitudes. 
Don't  vex  yourself.,  or  others,  about  their  attitudes.  It  is  the 
kicking  up  which  is  the  essential  performance ;  the  grace  will 
grow  afterward,  as  a  due  consequence  of  the  familiar  exercise. 
To  us  who  are  no  longer  in  the  gristle,  whose  limbs  are  solidly 
set,  and  grow  daily  more  and  more  uncompromising,  there  is,  no 
doubt,  something  quite  as  impertinent  as  awkward  in  this  rollick 
ing  of  young  creatures.  But,  dear  brother,  now  growing  grisly, 
if  not  ungraceful,  be  sure,  while  you  rebuke  the  absurd  antics  of 
boyhood,  that  you  are  not  governed  quite  as  much  by  a  secret 
envy,  which  deceives  yourself,  as  by  a  fastidious  feeling  of  the 
proprieties.  Be  sure,  before  you  sermonize,  that  you  would  really 
refuse  these  antics,  even  if  you  could  practise  them ;  that  it  would 
be  no  satisfaction  to  you  to  leap  backward  forty  years  or  more, 
and  rejoice  in  the  hop-sk  and-jump,  the  somersault,  or  even  the 


42  THE    CAS8IQUE    OP    XI  AW  AH 

bruising-match  and  buffet  of  yonder  urchins,  whom  you  now  re 
gard  with  such  solemn  gravity,  as  emulous  only  of  the  doings  of 
apes  and  monkeys.  Boys  have  to  go  through  a  certain  portion 
of  ape-and-monkey  practice  and  experience  before  they  can  be 
men;  and  we  have  only  to  take  care  that  they  are  duly  exercised 
in  man-practice  also,  so  that  they  do  not  finally  grow  into  the 
exclusive  fashion  of  the  beast ! 

And  girls  are  boys,  with  a  certain  difference,  and  women  men ! 
And  they  too  must  pass  through  a  certain  amount  of  rollicking ; 
and  our  only  solicitude  in  their  case  is  that  they  should  not  show 
quite  so  much  of  their  heels  as  the  tougher  gender.  Just  sec  that 
their  figleaves  are  a  fraction  longer;  and  if  you  make  some  dif 
ference  in  the  cut  and  fashion  of  skirt  and  small-clothes,  you  will 
probably  put  as  much  curb  on  the  young  creatures  as  they  need 
in  the  rollicking  season  through  which  they  have  to  pass. 

And  if  the  silly  monkeys  insist,  for  their  part,  on  flinging  up 
their  heels  to  the  sound  of  music,  don't  fancy,  for  the  life  of  you, 
that  the  disparagement  is  to  the  heels,  however  much  it  mav  be 
to  the  music.  If  the  fiddle  can  time  the  paces  of  these  wild  colts; 
if  heels  can  be  made  to  work  together  harmoniously ;  be  sure  that 
there  is  much  less  chance  of  their  being  cast  up  in  each  other's 
faces.  And,  one  thing  let  me  tell  you — the  more  you  encourage 
the  shaking  of  the  legs,  the  more  you  discourage  that  incessant 
wagging  of  the  tongue,  which  is  apt  to  become  a  scandal  to  the 
sex,  in  teaching  all  the  arts  of  scandal.  In  brief,  innocent  sports 
are  absolutely  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  innocence;  and 
the  heart  depends  quite  as  much,  for  its  continued  purity,  upon  an 
occasional  flinging  out  of  legs  and  arms,  as  upon  your  stale  saws 
and  owl-like  maxims.  All  that  we  have  need  to  do,  to  guard 
against  danger,  is  that  the  sports  shall  be  simply  those  of  voung 
limbs  needing  exercise,  stripped  of  all  conventional  adjuncts,  by 
which  we  teach  something  more  profound  than  exercise,  and  more 
mischievous  than  the  contredanse  and  pugilism.  To  the  pure  all 
things  are  pure,  even  the  heels  of  colts  and  the  claws  of  kittens; 
and  we  have  only  to  see  and  keep  them  to  the  mere  rollicking, 
without  suffering  this  to  become  tributary  to  the  sensualism  at 
once  of  thought  and  blood.  And  so  you  shall  see  that  dancing 
does  not  mean  simply  hugging  and  squeezing ;  and  that  you  are 
not  reconciled,  by  a  foreign  fashionable  name,  into  those  practices, 


LOVE  AFTER  A  FOREIGN  FASHION.          43 

which,  in  the  plain  vernacular,  mean  anything  but  dancing !  Of 
course,  this  is  doctrine  meant  only  for  animals  of  English  breed  — 
that  stern,  intense,  savage  Anglo-Norman  nature,  which  goes  to 
its  very  sports  with  a  sense  of  morals,  and  justifies  its  pursuit  of 
happiness  by  a  reference  to  duty.  It  is  otherwise  with  light  flex 
ible  natures  like  the  Italian  and  the  French.  To  these,  sport  is 
its  own  justification,  and  sufficiently  satisfies  of  itself.  But  when 
we,  of  rough  British  origin,  undertake  their  habitual  exercise,  we 
are  apt  to  get  drunk  upon  them.  The  fire  rages  in  the  blood,  and 
rushes  to  the  brain,  in  our  intensity  of  temperament,  and  the  game 
which  we  have  begun  in  play  is  but  too  apt  to  end  in  passion. 

We  have  said  all  this,  dear  reader,  in  order  that  you  should  be 
properly  prepared  to  look  upon  a  little  child's  play — a  colt  rol 
licking  —  without  feeling  your  sense  of  dignity  too  much  outraged. 
Remember,  too,  we  are  in  a  wild  land,  where  European  law 
scarcely  touches  us  with  a  feeling  of  reserve  or  caution.  Our 
dramatis  persona,  also,  though  of  all  European  stocks,  are  of 
rather  irregular  practice,  and  will,  no  doubt,  show  you  many  rules 
not  to  be  found  in  Gunter.  Do  n't  let  these  things  cause  any  mis 
givings.  It  is  your  policy  to  see  something  of  all  the  world's  vari 
eties  —  to  see  how  Humanity  demeans  itself  in  different  situations  ; 
and  you  are  wise  in  just  that  degree  in  which  you  recognise  all 
human  practices,  irrespective  of  the  laws  laid  down  by  your  little 
parish  conventionalities.  Thus  warned,  if  you  blunder,  sagely  or 
savagely,  in  your  meditations,  the  fault  is  none  of  ours. 

Our  Zulieine  has  no  sooner  heard  that  she  is  in  a  place  of 
safety,  where  she  can  rollick  upon  dry  land  without  dreading  the 
loss  of  skin  and  scalp,  than  she  begins  to  fling  out  her  heels.  She 
lilts,  she  sings,  she  screams,  claps  her  little  hands,  and  dances,  and 
forgets  that  she  has  a  master. 

"  Sylvia !  Sylvia !"  she  half  shouts,  half  warbles,  as  she  darts 
down  into  the  cabin. 

"  Phipps  !  Phipps  !"  —  and  Sylvia  appears,  a  thick-lipped  ne- 
gress,  mulatto  rather,  with  a  turbid  current  running  through  veins 
and  skin,  great  eyes,  a  flat  nose,  and  glossy  black  hair  of  that  wiry 
and  frizzled  character  which,  to  some  eyes,  may  possess  a  peculiar 
beauty.  In  the  hands  of  some  modern  novelists,  who  are  ambi 
tious  equally  of  taste  and  eccentricity,  she  might  become  a  hero 
ine,  calculated  to  provoke  the  raptures  of  a  Prince  Djalma.  To 


44  THE    CASSiQUE    OF   RIAWAH. 

others,  of  more  philanthropy  than  taste,  she  would  appear  the 
ideal  of  a  much-wronged  race  of  hybrids,  who  would  be  more  es 
teemed  for  their  charms  could  an  eccentric  philosophy  succeed  in 
disturbing  the  natural  instincts  of  a  superior  civilization.  But 
poor  Sylvia  lives  at  a  period  when  taste  was  more  proper  and 
natural,  and  philanthropy  more  sane,  and  so  we  describe  her  as 
she  appears  to  all  about  her  —  an  Abigail  of  very  vulgar  attrac 
tions,  with  all  the  cunning  of  her  class,  sly,  deceitful,  somewhat 
clever,  and  ugly  enough  for  trust,  as  the  waiting-maid  of  "  mi 
lady." 

Phipps  is  a  brisk  cabin-boy,  of  British  bulk  and  character,  six 
teen  years  old,  sprightly  enough  in  his  province  as  a  knife-cleaner 
and  actor  of  all  work  in  a  cruiser's  cabin,  without  any  very  salient 
features,  moral  or  physical,  his  nasal  prominence  excepted.  This 
is  a  nose,  an  unquestionable  proboscis ;  an  ample  rudder  to  a 
round,  fair  Saxon  face  of  good  fleshy  rotundity. 

They  both  show  themselves  at  the  summons  of  the  lady.  They 
are  bcth  pleased  to  obey  a  call  which  promises  pleasure.  There 
is  to  be  a  supper  and  a  dance  on  shore.  Phipps  plays  the  fiddle : 
Sylvia  feeds  with  appetite ;  has  as  great  a  passion  for  dancing  as 
her  mistress,  though  scarcely  so  graceful  of  movement ;  and  both 
are  particularly  delighted  with  the  idea  of  a  rollicking  on  shore. 

And  they  go  to  work  with  an  impulse  which  makes  preparation 
easy.  Fruits,  and  sweetmeats,  and  solids ;  plates,  knives  and 
forks ;  flasks  of  ruddy  wines  of  Canary  and  Madeira,  are  trans 
ferred  in  a  twink  from  hold  and  cabin  to  the  shelter  of  green  trees. 
Blankets,  nay  cloaks,  and  rich  couvrelits,  are  spread  upon  the 
turf,  and  hung  from  the  branches ;  and  soon  you  behold  the  fair 
Zulieme  seated  in  state  under  a  natural  canopy  of  oaks  and  ce 
dars.  And  anon  you  behold  the  sailors,  in  clean  toggery,  begin 
ning  to  group  themselves  about  the  area,  though  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  the  queen  of  the  fete.  They  are  never  indifferent 
to  sports  which  relieve  duty ;  and  they  are  not  superior  to  the 
vanity  which  for  ever  feels  conscious  that  other  eyes  are  looking 
on.  So  you  note  that  their  duck  trowsers  are  of  the  whitest ;  and 
some  of  them  sport  red  sashes  about  the  waist,  in  which  their  pis 
tols  and  knives  shine  with  recent  furbishing.  And  they  weai 
jaunty  jackets  of  blue,  and  green,  ar  1  crimson  ;  and  their  hats  of 
straw  are  wound  about  with  shawls  or  handkerchiefs  of  quite  as 


LOVE   AFTER   A    FOREIGN    FASHION.  45 

many  colors ;  and  these  are  of  silken  stuffs,  such  as  would  have 
been  held  rare  and  rich  enough  in  the  days  of  old  Queen  Bess. 
And  you  need  but  look  into  the  eyes  of  these  several  parties,  to 
see,  as  Phipps  tunes  his  fiddle  in  a  recess  of  the  wood,  and  the 
notes  come  faintly  to  their  senses,  that  they  meditate  shaking  legs 
themselves,  presuming,  no  doubt,  on  indulgences  which  have  nol 
been  denied  before. 

And  at  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  Zulieme  you  see  the  Spanish 
guitar,  thickly  inlaid  with  pearl,  and  ebony,  and  silver,  in  vines 
and  flowers,  while  a  broad  scarf  of  crimson  floats  around  it  in  the 
breeze,  which  said  scarf  will  anon  encircle  the  neck  and  shoul 
ders  —  white  and  bare  enough  in  her  present  costume  —  of  the 
beauty  of  the  feast.  She  has  made  her  toilet  for  the  occasion. 
She  has  an  eye,  with  all  her  childish  simplicity,  to  what  belongs 
to  such  an  occasion.  She  knows  that  all  these  rough  sailors  ad 
mire ;  that  they  too  have  eyes  ;  and  failing  to  figure,  as  she  de 
signed,  in  the  festas  of  the  Cuban,  she  is  not  unwilling  to  receive 
the  homage  of  a  ruder  class  of  worshippers. 

And  so  she  glows  in  green  and  crimson,  and  her  hair  wantons 
free,  only  sprinkled  with  pearls,  which  contrast  exquisitely  with 
her  raven  tresses ;  while,  wrapping  her  neck  in  frequent  folds, 
and  dropping  down  upon  her  bosom  in  a  gorgeous  amulet,  with 
pendant  diamond  cross,  they  serve  to  show  how  much  whiter  is 
the  delicate,  skin  which  they  do  not  so  much  adorn  as  illustrate. 
Her  dress,  open  enough  for  the  display  of  a  very  admirable  bust, 
is  loose  enough  in  skirt  for  the  perfect  freedom  of  an  exquisite 
figure.  A  cincture  of  green  and  gold,  with  diamond  clasp,  encir 
cles  her  waist,  and  her  jewelled  poniard  secures  the  clasp,  the  lit 
tle  sheath  forming  the  rivet  which  brings  the  opposing  eyes  of  the 
clasp  together. 

Zulieme  has  not  forgotten  the  first  of  her  lessons,  —  the  one 
tanght  most  easily  —  the  one  always  taught  by  a  fond,  foolish, 
adoring  mother,  • —  that  she  is,  in  truth,  very  beautiful ;  and  that 
the  sole  object  of  dress  is  not,  as  vulgar  people  think,  to  conceal, 
but  to  adorn  and  properly  develop  the  person  ;  and,  as  she  now 
sits  before  us,  we  are  again  reminded  of  Cleopatra  — 

"  Cleopatra,  lussuriosa," 
•welling  with  all  the  conpoiousness,  not  only  of  a  most  voluptuous 


46  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

beauty,  but  of  the  masculine  eyes  looking  on,  that  drink  in  provo 
cation  at  every  glance,  and  grow  momently  more  and  more  bewil 
dered  with  the  intoxications  of  passion. 

To  the  class  of  beauties  which  Zulieme  represents,  the  posses 
sion  of  the  fascination  is  nothing  compared  with  its  exercise  upon 
the  victim.  It  loses  half  of  its  charm  in  their  own  eyes,  unless 
they  feel  that  others  grow  blind  beneath  its  spells.  And  when 
vanity  and  voluptuousness  grow  together,  who  shall  measure  the 
extent  of  insanity  to  which  their  proprietor  will  speed  ?  It  was 
fabled  of  Circe,  that  she  transformed  her  worshippers  into  brutes. 
But  the  fable  properly  implies  that  they  were  brutified  by  the 
fascination,  which,  in  its  own  growth  of  passion,  had  lost  all  powei 
to  discriminate  in  the  choice  of  its  worshippers,  and  had  ceased  to 
consider  the  difference  in  the  quality  of  the  homage,  or  whether  it 
was  accorded  by  brutes  or  men.  Circe  was  willing  enough  to 
exhibit  herself  to  beast  as  well  as  man  ;  and,  like  her,  our  Zulieme 
was  perhaps  quite  as  well  pleased  with  the  admiration  of  Jack  Tar 
as  that  of  her  own  liege  lord,  his  superior  and  hers  —  the  stern, 
half  outlaw,  but  noble  Captain  Calvert. 

"  But  where  is  my  lord,  the  while  ?" 

We  could  answer.  We  have  seen  where  and  how.  But  of  his 
griefs,  or  of  any  griefs,  our  lady  asks  no  questions.  The  feast  is 
spread.  The  viands  are  about  to  be  served,  and  Lieutenant  Moly- 
neaux  sits  at  the  feet  of  the  lady,  hands  up  the  cate§,  and  serves 
her  with  hands  and  eyes.  He  too,  always  studious  of  his  per 
sonal  appearance,  is  habited  with  care  and  taste  for  the  occasion. 
His  figure,  though  not  massive,  is  a  good  one.  He  prides  himself 
equally  on  the  having,  and  the  making,  of  a  leg.  Charles  Molyneaux 
is  something  of  a  courtier.  He  has  dressed  himself,  making  as  near 
an  approach  to  the  court  costume  of  that  day  as  possible.  For 
example,  his  neat  figure  is  clad  in  silk  stockings  and  small-clothes. 
He  wears  a  diamond  buckle  at  knee  and  instep.  He  has  on  a 
richly-flowered  vest  of  silk ;  and  the  frills  of  his  shirt  protrude 
six  inches  from  his  bosom.  His  silken  cravat  is  of  dimensions 
which  suit  rather  a  levee  at  St.  James,  or  St.  Cloud,  than  warm 
weather  and  the  woods  of  Kiawah.  His  coat  is  of  brocade,  such 
as  Bolingbroke  wore  at  the  court  of  France.  It  is  of  Paris  cut 
and  so,  a  sufficient  model,  of  course,  for  all  the  courts  of  Europe 
Mr.  Molyneaux  is  a  person  of  conventional  tastes.  He  does  not 


LOVE  AFTER  A  FOREIGN  FASHION.          47 

suffer  himself  sufficient  freedom,  to  consult  that  better  propriety, 
which  makes  good  taste  superior  to  all  convention.  In  one  re 
spect,  however,  he  left  Nature  to  her  own  decencies.  He  wore 
no  pomatum  or  powder  in  his  hair ;  but  this  forbearance  was  not 
his  merit.  These  commodities  were  neither  among  the  ship's 
stores  nor  his  own.  He  possessed  a  naturally  fine  shock,  which, 
let  go  free,  had  grown  into  very  copious  love-locks,  which  did  not 
misbeseem  the  days  of  Rochester  and  the  effeminate  style  of  his 
own  face.  His  complacency  is  such  as  not  to  suffer  him  to  sup 
pose  that  any  costume  would  misbeseem  his  person ! 

And,  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  gay  lady,  he  played  the  courtier 
in  speech,  and  look,  and  action,  no  less  than  in  costume.  He 
taught  his  eyes  to  languish,  looking  deathly  things  into  hers.  His 
tores  ivere  subdued  sweetly  to  those  murmuring  accents  which 
lovers  suppose  to  be  fitly  adapted  to  honeyed  sentiments ;  and  the 
compliments  whispered  to  her  now,  and  at  other  periods,  were  of 
that  equivocal  sort  —  half  serious  and  sentimental,  and  half  play 
ful  —  which  the  young  coquette  hears  with  a  thrill,  and  responds 
to  with  a  sigh ;  and  which  the  fashionable  world  considers  a  very 
natural,  proper,  and  wholly  unobjectionable  method  of  conversa 
tion  :  Passion  feeling  his  way ;  gradually  insinuating ;  not  offend 
ing  all  at  once,  but  so  preparing  his  advance  that  the  mind  is 
gradually  corrupted,  and  not  apt,  when  final  offence  is  given,  to 
show  itself  offended  at  all.  It  is,  indeed,  wonderful  how  rapid  is 
this  progress  of  safe  insinuation  in  such  cases :  she  who  drinks, 
tasting  none  of  the  poison,  so  infinitesimal  is  the  dose,  and  so 
sweet  the  draught ;  but,  drinking  so  frequently  that  all  the  veins 
are  filled  in  brief  season,  and  the  poison  finally  makes  perfect 
lodgment  in  the  heart.  Of  course,  where  there  are  many  lovers, 
there  is  a  corresponding  growth  of  obtuseness ;  passion  itself  no 
longer  finding  stimulus,  from  too  great  a  familiarity  with  this  sort 
of  provocation,  and  flirtation  serving  then  to  gratify  the  vanity  of 
that  passion  which  has  no  other  appetite.  It  is  curious,  indeed, 
how  cold  and  sterile  vanity  contrives  to  render  all  other  passions. 

Poor  Zulieme !  she  was  a  flirt  from  mere  vanity  and  vacuity  of 
thought.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  smile  and  play ;  very  pleasant  to 
be  played  with ;  very  grateful  to  be  taught  that  she  had  her  own 
fascinations,  and  that  wisdom,  in  her  case,  might  very  well  be 
dispensed  with.  She  had  been  made  beautiful  —  made  to  appear 


48  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

beautiful  —  ^xi  so,  to  appear  beautiful  was  her  great  duty  in  life  ; 
and  to  receive  the  continued  assurance  that  she  was  the  beauty 
that  she  had  been  taught  to  think  herself,  and  was  doing  the 
proper  business  for  which  she  was  made,  was,  of  course,  calculated 
to  put  her  mind  at  rest  on  all  disquieting  subjects.  That  her  hus 
band  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  she  was  beautiful  or  not,  was 
not  so  much  a  cause  of  solicitude  as  of  vexation.  It  only  showed 
him  a  wrong-headed,  inappreciative  person,  who  really  did  not 
know  what  the  uses  of  a  husband  are ! 

But  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  gave  no  such  offence.  He  was 
shrewd,  quick,  selfish ;  had  those  arts  in  perfection  which  teach 
how  to  take  advantage  of  another's  weakness.  He  soon  sounded 
the  shallows  of  poor  Zulieme's  little  heart  and  head :  thought  so, 
at  least ;  but  was  mistaken  partly.  She  was  a  pretty  idiot,  vain 
and  capricious  ;  a  spoiled  child,  insolent  as  lovely  ;  charming  with 
out  an  art,  but  charming  only  as  a  plaything.  But,  as  Molyneaux 
was  wont  to  say  — 

"  It's  a  plaything,  after  all,  that  a  man  most  wants.  Let  a  man 
take  a  wife  who  will ;  a  plaything  for  me !  and  why  not  another 
man's  wife  ?" 

There  was  no  good  reason,  as  the  world  goes,  why  not !  His 
comrade,  Lieutenant  Eckles,  whom  you  see  also  in  attendance,  not 
far  from  the  beautiful  Zulieme,  but  not  at  her  feet ;  a  young  man 
of  inferior  intellectual  calibre  to  Molyneaux,  but  more  certainly 
moral ;  a  good-looking  fellow,  too,  but  by  no  means  beau  or  cour 
tier  ;  he  had  some  misgivings  in  regard  to  the  policy,  if  not  the 
propriety,  of  his  comrade's  practice.  More  than  once,  on  the 
present  voyage,  he  had  shaken  his  head  gravely  at  the  presump 
tion  of  Molyneaux  in  respect  to  the  captain's  wife :  not,  however, 
committing  the  absurdity  of  reproaching  his  morals,  but  onlj 
warning  him  against  the  dangers  of  his  course. 

"  Look  you,  Molyneaux,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  for  all  that 
Captain  Calvert  seems  so  indifferent  about  these  liberties  you  take 
with  his  wife,  I'm  sure  he  don't  like  it." 
Likely  not,  Eckles  —  but  she  does." 

"  I  think  that  likely,  too ;  but  do  n't  you  see  that  you  're  in 
shoal  water  all  the  time,  and  can't  say  when  you'll  be  among  the 
breakers." 

"Pooh,  Eckles!  shall  one  drink  his  can  the  less  because  of 


LOVE   AFTER   A    FOREIGN    tAbHION.  49 

that  ?  Shall  I  refuse  fruit  lest  I  be  sick  to-morrow  ?  I  am  not 
such  an  ascetic ;  no,  nor  such  a  fool.  I  am  for  taking  the  pleas 
ure  when  and  where  I  find  it,  without  asking  myself  whether 
there  be  a  thorn  lurking  for  the  fingers." 

"  You  will  feel  it  prick  when  you  least  expect  it ;  and  the  wound 
will,  some  day,  make  you  feel  that  the  pleasure  was  a  little  too  dearly 
paid  for.  The  captain 's  a  terrible  fellow  when  he  rouses  up  !" 

"  What  do  *I  care,  so  long  as  I  do  my  duty  ?  The  world 's  a 
sort  of  feast,  where  men  gather  to  get  food  which  they  relish.  I 
find  mine  here  and  there,  and  do  not  ask  who  is  the  gardener. 
Enough  if,  when  I  pluck  and  eat,  my  appetite  smacks  its  lips. 
As  for  the  captain's  rages,  none  know  them  better  than  myself; 
but  I  fear  no  man  that  ever  stepped  a  quarter-deck,  and  he  knows 
it !  But  you  are  mistaken  :  I  take  no  liberties  with  his  wife  that 
are  not  the  custom  of  the  Spaniard.  We  dance  together,  and 
before  his  eyes. 

uAy,  but  he's  an  Englishman;  and  what  the  Spaniard  sees  no 
harm  in,  the  Englishman  winces  at.  And  dancing's  one  thing, 
but  regular  hugging  another.  There's  that  fandango,  for  instance, 
which  you  and  she  are  so  fond  of.  Would  you  like  to  see  your 
wife  carrying  on  such  a  game  with  another  man  ?" 

"  When  /marry,  my  wife  may  carry  it  on  if  she  pleases.  But, 
so  long  as  I  have  my  senses,  and  know  what  other  men's  wives 
are,  you  will  not  catch  me  putting  my  neck  into  the  halter.  I  am 
quite  satisfied  with  another  man's  wife  at  a  fandango." 

"Very  well,  perhaps,  so  long  as  he's  satisfied;  but  if  it's  the 
captain,  be  sure  to  keep  your  heels  in  running  order,  if  he  hap 
pens  to  break  loose.  He's  not  suspicious,  not  jealous;  he's  got 
too  much  pride  for  that,  I'm  thinking;  but  if  ever  he  thinks  you 
grow  saucy,  and  go  too  far,  he'll  make  no  more  bones  of  breaking 
your  bones  than  he  would  of  cleaving  a  Spaniard  to  the  chine.  I 
can  tell  you  there's  not  a  man  in  the  ship  but  sees  and  says  you 
go  too  far,  and  will  be  brought  up  some  day  by  a  taut  rope  and  a 
short  turn.  It's  one  thing  to  dance  with  the  lady ;  but  to  do  it  as 
you  do,  with  so  much  unction  —  to  bring  her  up  to  your  bosom, 
and  squeeze  her  so  closely,  and  keep  at  it  so  long  —  it  neither 
agrees  with  the  captain's  bile  nor  with  the  music.  You  don't 
keep  proper  time,  Molyneaux ;  and  devils  seize  me,  if  any  hus 
band  will  keep  proper  temper  long,  if  the  thing  goes  on.  For  my 

3 


50  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

part,  if  'twas  my  wife,  I'd  soon  have  you  ashore,  broadsword  to 
broadsword." 

"  And  get  your  skull  split  in  the  performance." 

"  That  might  be.  But,  in  a  case  of  that  kind,  you  'd  find  even  me 
an  ugly  customer ;  and  as  for  the  captain,  let  me  tell  you,  clever 
as  you  are  at  fence,  you  wouldn't  stand  three  minutes  before  him. 
He  'd  beat  down  all  your  guards  before  you  could  say  '  Jack  Rob 
inson,'  and  slice  off  head  or  arm,  making  clean  work  of  it,  not 
leaving  you  chance  for  a  single  prayer.  Now,  do  you  look  to  it. 
The  captain  begins  to  grow  a  little  restiff;  the  wife's  a  silly  crea 
ture,  who  can 't  see  ;  and  your  very  impudence  will  help  to  shut 
your  eyes  and  open  his,  where  a  wiser  fellow  would  never  be 
suspected,  by  keeping  wide  awake  himself." 

**  My  dear  Eckles,  do  you  never  suspect  yourself  of  being  te 
dious.  Other  men  would  only  think  you  envious ;  but  the  envy 
is  forgivable  ;  the  dullness  never." 

"  You  are  the  most  conceited  ass,  Molyneaux ;  and  your  ears 
will  bring  you  to  the  pillory.  I  envious  !  and  of  you,  I  suppose  ? 
Oh,  that  a  man's  calf  should  turn  his  brains  so  completely !" 

The  young  men  were  both  dressing  for  the  festa  when  this  dia 
logue  took  place :  Molyneaux  was  drawing  on  his  silken  stocking, 
and  stroking  the  limb  with  evident  complacency.  Hence  the  ref 
erence  of  his  companion  to  the  particular  member.  The  sarcasm 
of  the  junior  member  fell  innocuous  on  the  ears  of  his  senior ;  in 
fact,  provoked  his  laughter  only.  He  was  too  well  fortified  by 
self-esteem.  It  was  an  additional  tribute  to  the  merits  of  his  legs. 
But  this  must  suffice  for  clues  in  this  progress.  Meanwhile, 
return  we  to  the  festa. 

Molyneaux  served  the  cates  and  viands.  Zulieme  shared  with 
him,  helping  him  in  turn.  Eckles,  more  respectfully  apart,  was 
rather  a  spectator  than  participator  in  the  scene.  He  ate  and 
drank,  it  is  true.  He  had  a  genuine  English  appetite.  The  sail 
ors  were  dispersed  in  the  woods,  making  merry  after  their  fash 
ion,  little  groups  of  them  forming  under  so  many  trees,  and  drink 
ing,  eating,  and  gambolling,  like  young  donkeys  in  a  pleasant 
pasturage.  Very  soon,  finding  her  mistress  absorbed  in  his  gal 
lantries  with  Molyneaux,  Sylvia  took  herself  off  to  a  social  circle 
of  more  freedom,  among  her  favorites  of  the  crew.  Phipps  was 
not  so  modest  as  to  suppose  that  he  could  draw  off  with  safety; 


LOVE   AFTER   A    FOREIGN    FASHION.  51 

and  Lieutenant  Eckles,  though  feeling  himself  de  trop,  was  yet, 
for  this  very  reason,  unwilling  to  withdraw.  He  sat;  looked 
on  uneasily ;  rose  and  stood  about ;  Mras  sometimes  spoken  to,  and 
sometimes  spoke ;  but  formed  no  essential  member  of  the  tableau. 

And  the  rich  wines  of  Sicily  and  Madeira  were  soon  put  in 
circulation ;  and  the  joyous  Zulieme  seemed  to  yield  herself 
wholly  to  the  intoxication  of  the  scene.  Her  bright  eyes  sparkled 
back  to  those  of  her  cavalier.  Her  lively  tones  answered  to  his 
subdued  and  sentimental  ones. 

But  it  was  somewhat  disquieting  to  him  that  she  should  talk 
merrily,  in  answer  to  his  saddest  murmur ;  that  there  should  be 
nothing  sad  either  in  her  looks  or  words.  She  was  a  little  too 
much  the  child,  at  play,  for  him.  He  could  better  prefer  a  little 
more  of  that  Anglo-Norman  intensity  which  conducts  so  readily 
from  play  to  passion. 

But  where  should  Zulieme  learn  that  sentiment  which  is  the 
due  medium  for  such  transition  ?  It  was  neither  in  heart  nor 
head  ;  and  the  hopes  of  any  progress  on  the  part  of  our  roue 
could  be  predicated  only  of  her  exuberance ;  the  loose,  familiar 
habits  of  her  race  ;  her  ignorance  of  all  concentrative  passion  ;  her 
butterfly  caprice  and  infantile  restlessness.  Such  a  character 
naturally  baffled  the  usual  arts  of  the  courtly  gallant.  He  relies 
upon  the  use  of  a  conventional  sentiment  of  which  she  had  never 
learned  the  ABC.  That  sort  of  eloquence  —  a  compound,  in 
which  fancy  relieves,  yet  reconciles  us  to  passion ;  which  is  en 
forced  by  sadly-searching  glances ;  soft,  low  tones,  melting  into 
murmurs  —  all  these,  the  more  common  agencies  in  such  a  game, 
were  wanting  in  their  wonted  potency,  dealing  with  so  light  a  crea 
ture.  She  was  willing  enough  to  sport  on  the  edge  of  the  preci 
pice,  but  only  because  she  was  so  totally  ignorant  of  any  precipice 
in  existence.  Sin  is  usually  a  thing  of  great  intensities,  by  which 
one  is  hurried  onward  in  repeated  provocation ;  the  merely  loiter 
ing  nature  is  as  frequently  diverted  from  sin  —  that  is,  the  sin  of 
passion  —  as  it  is  from  positive  virtues,  by  its  mere  caprices ;  and 
Zulieme  Calvert,  nee  Montano,  was  one  whom  the  sound  of  a^fiddle 
could  divert  from  a  death-bed  —  whom  the  grateful  occupation  of 
costuming  herself  for  a  festa,  where  she  was  to  be  seen  of  many 
lovers,  would  suffice  to  win  from  the  embraces  of  the  most  ardent 
Whom  she  herself  preferred  over  all  the  rest. 


52  THE    CASSIQI'E    OF    KIAWAH. 

How  shall  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  beguile  such  a  nature  to  a 
moment  of  serious  thought  of  love  ?  for  he  can  only  prevail  by 
inspiring  her  with  some  such  mood. 

Well,  he  spoke  of  love,  of  hearts  naturally  twinned  by  Heaven, 
denied  by  man ;  afflicted  with  mutual  yearnings,  but  with  great 
barriers  of  convention  between :  not  insurmountable,  however, 
thank  Heaven!  Love  will  find  out  a  way  —  why  not?  Is  love, 
decreed  of  Heaven,  to  be  denied  of  man  ?  Shall  these  mutual 
hearts  be  defrauded  of  their  mutual  rights  ?  And  what  are  these 
barriers  that  rise  up  to  conflict  with  the  purposes  of  Heaven  ? 
Are  they  not  pretexts  and  impediments  of  merely  human  artifice  ? 
And  shall  those  who  have  Heaven's  sanction  upon  their  affec 
tions  —  shall  they  submit  to  these  human  artifices  ? 

Such  was  the  sort  of  stuff,  of  an  ancient  fashion,  which  the  roue 
finds  stereotyped  to  his  hands  in  the  old  romances,  with  which 
our  amorous  lieutenant  regaled  the  ears  of  Zulieme  Culvert,  in 
the  effort  to  arouse  her  fancies.  The  case  was,  of  course,  put 
abstractly. 

And  he  looked  so  languid  and  sad,  so  wretchedly  interesting, 
while  he  said  it,  that  poor  Zulieme  sighed  too,  and  looked  very 
wretched  herself  for  a  moment,  and  said : 

"  'T  was,  indeed,  very  sad  and  very  cruel,  Mr.  Molyneaux  ;  and 
I  wonder  why  people  do  submit  to  such  denial.  I'm  sure  I 
wouldn't.  If  I  loved  a  gentleman  I'd  have  him,  and  he  should 
have  me,  and  I'd  no  more  mind  what  mamma  said  than  I'd  mind 
Sylvia.  But  I  don't  think  such  things  happen  often,  lieutenant. 
I  don't  think  love  makes  one  so  wretched.  If  it  did,  'twould 
be  no  better  than  grief  or  melancholy.  Now,  when  I  was  in  love, 
I  was  always  the  gayest  creature  in  the  world.  I  told  every 
body.  I  had  a  hundred  friends,  and  we  talked  of  it  all  the  time ; 
and  we  made  songs  about  it,  and  dances " 

"  Dances !" 

"  Yes !  we  made  dances  about  it ;  and  one  played  the  gentle 
man,  and  the  other  the  lady.  And  oh  !  you  should  have  seen  us : 
how  we  bowed  to  each  other,  and  sidled  by  each  other,  and  smiled 
and  looked  up,  and  sighed  and  looked  down ;  and  then,  on  a  sud 
den,  the  gentleman  seized  the  lady  in  his  arms,  and  drew  her  up 
to  him,  and  gave  her  such  a  kiss.  Oh !  I  vow,  when  I  was  in 
love,  or  only  playing  love,  it  was  the  most  joyous  time  of  my  life* 


LOVE    AFTER    A    FORKKIN    FASHION.  53 

and  I  was  never  so  gay  —  so  happy.  Love  never  made  me 
wretched." 

"But  was  this  when  you  married  the  captain?  He  did  not 
court  you  in  that  way,  did  he  ?" 

"Oh!  no!  —  poor  fellow,  he  couldn't  do  much  courting,  any 
way.  When  I  first  saw  him,  he  was  half  dead.  Father  brought 
him  home.  He  was  wrecked,  you  know,  and  cast  away ;  and  he 
and  Belcher  travelled  over  the  isthmus,  till  he  was  taken  sick, 
and  brought  to  our  hacienda.  And  he  was  so  sick !  He  hardly 
knew  anybody ;  was  out  of  his  head ;  could  see  nothing ;  and 
talked  all  sorts  of  thin.. j  about  England,  and  fighting,  and  a  lady 
whom  he  called  Olive.  It  was  always  Olive  —  Olive,  Olive ! 
And  he  spoke  so  softly  and  sweetly,  and  I  could  see  that  he  was 
a  handsome  man,  and  a  brave,  though  he  was  so  feeble.  And  so, 
when  he  called  me  '  Olive,'  I  answered  him ;  and  I  nursed  him ; 
and  he  was  so  pleased,  and  I  was  so  pleased  to  nurse  him.  He 
was  like  a  doll,  and  I  washed  his  face  and  bathed  his  head,  and  I 
combed  his  hair,  and  all  that  did  him  good ;  and  when  he  was 
raving,  he  kissed  my  hands,  and  called  me  his  dear  Olive,  and  I 
let  him  call  me  so,  and  answered  him,  and  never  told  him  that  I 
was  not  Olive,  but  Zulieme.  And  I  sang  and  played  to  him  on 
the  guitar,  and  when  he  got  better  we  played  together.  Oh !  he 
was  a  great  doll  for  me,  and  it  was  in  playing  together  that  we 
made  love  and  carried  on  our  courtship.  It  was  very  funny. 
Such  plays  as  we  had  —  such  rompings  !  And  I  taught  him  how 
to  dance  our  Spanish  dances  ;  and  he  sang  with  me  —  he 's  got  a 
beautiful  voice  for  singing ;  and  I  chased  him  through  the  orange- 
groves,  and  found  him  out  where  he  used  to  hide  himself;  for  he 
loved  too  much  to  hide  himself  among  the  thick  groves ;  and  he 
looked  so  sad  when  I  found  him ;  but  I  cheered  him  up,  and  he 
Avould  smile,  and  sing  and  dance  with  me,  all  so  good ;  till,  one 
day,  he  started  up  in  a  sort  of  passion,  and  looked  very  grand,  and 
said  I  should  be  his  little  wife  ;  and  I  said,  '  Yes,  why  not  ?  it  will 
be  so  funny  to  become  a  wife.'  And  so  the  priest  married  us.  But 
he 's  changed  since  then  —  he  is  not  funny  now.  He 's  so  serious, 
and  so  cross !  —  all  you  English  are  so  cross  and  quarrelsome." 

"But  /am  not." 

"  Oh !  yes,  you  are,  though  you  do  try  to  please  me  and  make 
me  happy." 


54  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KTAWAH. 

"  Ah,  Zulieme,  what  you  call  love  is  very  different  from  what  I 
mean.  I  could  teach  you  a  better  sort  of  love  —  more  sweet, 
more  precious  —  which  would  fill  your  soul  rather  than  your 
eyes ;  for  which  you  would  be  willing  to  die ;  for  which,  alone, 
one  who  knows  what  it  is  would  be  willing  to  live !" 

"  Do  teach  me,  then.  I  'd  like  to  know  every  sort  of  love.  I 
suppose  it's  different  in  all  countries;  but  I  don't  think  you 
English  know  much  about  it;  at  least,  I  don't  like  your  rough, 
hard,  quarrelsome  sort  of  love.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  you  are 
always  angry  when  you  love.  There's  Harry,  now  —  why,  when 
he  made  love  to  me,  it  was  like  a  tiger.  I  didn't  know  but  he 
wanted  to  eat  me.  And  when  he  spoke  of  love,  even  before  we 
were  married,  it  was  as  if  he  spoke  of  some  great  sorrow  and 
trouble ;  for  he  groaned,  and  clasped  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
then  he  would  start,  and  dash  out  into  the  groves,  and  almost  run, 
till  he  got  into  the  thickest  part,  where  the  sun  never  shines." 

"  I  would  teach  you  another  sort  of  love  from  his,"  responded 
the  courtier  in  low  tones,  looking  sadly  sweet,  with  that  intense 
stare  of  the  eyes,  which,  with  a  slight  dash  of  melancholy  in  the 
gaze,  makes  the  usual  ideal  of  devoted  and  inveterate  passion, 
among  professed  artists. 

"  Oh  !  don't  look  so  wretched  !"  cried  the  lady,  flinging  a  hand 
ful  of  Brazil  nutshells  into  his  face.  "It's  enough  to  scare  love 
out  of  the  country  to  look  so  while  you  talk  about  it.  Don't 
you  —  you  hurt  me." 

He  had  seized  her  hand,  and  would  have  carried  it  to  his  lip, 
when  a  guttural  sound,  rather  a  grunt  than  groan,  aroused  him  to 
the  consciousness  that  there  were  other  parties  on  the  ground. 
With  a  fierce  glance  he  looked  around,  and  met  the  ominous  vis 
age  of  his  brother  lieutenant,  who,  fearing  lest^the  scene  should 
too  greatly  shock  his  own,  or  the  modesty  of  some  other  party, 
sent  forth  the  doleful  ejaculation,  which  had  arrested  the  gallant 
ries  of  our  cavalier.  Molyneaux  could  have  taken  him  by  the 
throat. 

"  Oh !  you  had  reason  to  groan,  Mr.  Eckles,"  said  the  laughing 
lady ;  "  for  such  a  doleful  picture  as  Mr.  Molyneaux  made  of 
himself  was  absolutely  distressing.  Now  hear  me  tell  of  love: 
when  you  love,  you  must  look  sweet,  and  bright,  and  happy; 
you  must  sing,  and  you  must  dance ;  and  go  together  into  the 


LOVE   AFTER    A   FOREIGN   FASHION.  55 

groves,  and  get  oranges,  and  bananas,  and  figs,  and  nnts ;  and 
then  have  a  chase,  and  pelt  one  another  as  you  run,  till  you're 
ready  to  drop  with  laughter,  and  only  shake  it  off  to  dance.  For 
you  mustn't  laugh  out  when  you're  dancing  —  only  smile ;  you 
need  all  your  breath,  you  know,  if  you  want  to  dance  beautifully. 
But,  hark !  Phipps  has  gone  off  with  his  fiddle,  and  the  sailors 
are  at  it.  Hear  what  a  shouting  and  shuffling:  and  that  Sylvia, 
she's  gone,  I  vow,  and  I  suppose  she's  footing  it  with  the  best  of 
them.  How  funny  !  Come,  let's  go  and  see." 

And  she  sprang  up,  gathered  up  her  skirts  with  one  hand, 
grasped  the  arm  of  Molyneaux  with  the  other,  and  crying  to 
Eckles,  "  Come,  Mr.  Eckles,  won't  you  ?"  she  lilted  away  in  a 
capering  motion,  which  required  that  Molyneaux  should  adopt  a 
new  step,  somewhat  difficult  to  his  execution,  in  order  lo  ke-;p 
time  with  hers.  Eckles  slowly  following,  with  uplifted  hw'!*  >.nd 
eyes,  the  three  soon  buried  themselves  in  the  deeper  wood<«,  V.ere 
a  more  inspiriting  and  less  pathetic  action  was  in  progress 


$6  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   V. 

SIMPLY,    LEGS    AT    Ol  TLAAYRY. 

"  The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit,"  &c. — Tarn  O'Shanter. 

SAILORS  ashore  have  a  proverbial  character  for  rollicking. 
So.  too,  is  High  Life  Below  Stairs  matter  for  the  proverbialist. 
Colts  on  a  common,  boys  in  the  holidays,  girls  at  a  match  or 
merry-making :  fools  all,  you  say.  Oh,  ridiculous  moralist !  throw 
olf  your  cloak  of  wisdom  for  a  while,  as  Prospero  does  his  magic 
garment,  and  relieve  your  shoulders  of  the  dignity  which  should 
break  any  camel's  back.  Do  not  require  us  to  apologize  for  these 
silly  ones,  because  you  claim  to  be  wise  or  virtuous.  "  Shall  there 
be  no  more  cakes  and  ale,"  because  you  have  come  to  your  inher 
itance  from  Solomon  ?  Sessa !  let  these  children  slide  ;  and  stop 
your  ears  at  the  uproar,  but  do  not  complain,  lest  Apollo  stretches 
them  for  you  to  the  dimensions  which  he  gave  to  those  of  Midas. 

Great  is  the  uproar,  wondrous  the  antics,  measureless  the  fun, 
among  our  rollickers  on  shore !  Is  it  Bo-peep,  Hide  and  Seek, 
Hunt  the  Slipper,  or  only  a  new  fashion  of  the  fandango  ?  The 
apes  —  the  urchins  —  the  grimalkins  —  the  donkeys  !  what  are 
they  after  ?  What  a  charivari !  Jack  Tar,  Ben  Bobstay,  Jim 
Bowline,  Bill  Bowsprit,  Mike  Mainsail,  and  a  score  besides,  are 
all  busy  in  a  merry  contest  for  the  hand  of  Sylvia,  that  model 
among  mulattresses. 

And  all  this  to  the  perpetual  clang  of  Phipps's  fiddle ;  and  the 
yell  and  laugh  chase  each  other  through  the  woods,  till  every 
sleeping  echo,  starting  up  in  terror,  screams  it  out  again  from 
ewamp  and  thicket 


SIMPLY,    LEGS   AS   OUTLAWRY.  57 

And  Sylvia,  how  she  runs,  and  skips,  and  bounces !  What 
legs  she  shows  !  They  toss  her  about,  the  Jack  Tars,  from  hand 
to  hand,  like  a  bird  from  the  shuttle ;  yet,  with  catlike  agility,  she 
keeps  upon  the  wing,  and  out  of  all  clutches.  There  !  Ben  Bob- 
stay  has  her  —  no !  she  slips  through  his  fingers.  At  the  very 
moment  when  he  shouts,  "  Shiver  my  timbers,  but  I've  got  her," 
she  breaks  loose  and  skips  away,  with  a  joyous  yell  of  her  own, 
that  sufficiently  testifies  her  sense  of  freedom,  and  her  own  fun  in 
the  chase. 

She  rather  likes  this  rough  usage ;  is  evidently  nowise  disin 
clined  to  "  the  situation ;"  and  takes  good  care  not  so  far  to  dis 
tance  the  pursuer  as  to  discourage  his  pursuit.  Sylvia,  poor 
thing,  is  neither  fun  nor  man  hater ;  and,  in  the  absence  of  other 
people,  held  the  tarry -breeches  folks  to  be  quite  passable,  and  by 
no  means  to  be  despised.  She  is  sufficiently  removed  from  her 
own  set  to  have  no  dread  of  vulgarity.  And  this  humble  self-esti 
mate  is  always  a  commendable  virtue  among  our  colored  Chris 
tian  brethren.  We  commend  her  example  to  her  race,  especially 
at  this  philanthropic  era.  Let  them  not  despise  the  whites  too 
greatly  because  they  have  so  especially  won  the  admiration  of  the 
Caucasian  world.  Let  them  sometimes  condescend  to  a  dance 
and  fling  with  their  ancient  master,  if  only  to  show  that  they  do 
not  pride  themselves  upon  their  elevation  beyond  the  usual  scale 
of  humanity ! 

Sylvia  is  just  now  a  model,  not  only  of  modesty,  but  agility. 
But  the  odds  are  against  her.  Sailors  have  great  virtues  in  their 
legs  also,  and  there  are  twenty  pair  now  busy  to  circumvent  her 
one.  Ah,  poor  Sylvia!  Jim  Bowline,  this  time,  has  got  the 
weather-gauge  of  her ;  Bill  Bowsprit,  with  great  arms  stretched 
wide,  is  ready  to  cut  her  off  from  port ;  and  that  famous  reefer? 
Jack  Tar,  has  taken  her  amidships ;  i.  e.,  around  the  body. 

Ha !  no  !     Bravo  !  Bravissimo !     She  eludes  the  pack. 

"  Well  done,  Cutty  Sark !" 

What  a  leap  was  that,  involving  prodigious  muscle,  and  a  lib 
eral  display  of  legs  ! 

But  it  is  a  last  effort.  She  flags.  They  surround  her.  She 
can  no  more  escape  ;  and,  encircled  by  their  outstretched  forma 
and  arms,  she  is  constrained  to  join  in  the  fandango. 

Never  was  there  such  a  scene.  It  is  at  its  height  when  th« 

3* 


58  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

Seriora  Zulieme,  attended  by  her  cavaliers,  comes  upon  the 
ground. 

Zulieme  is  ready  to  die  of  laughter.  She  cheers,  claps  her  lit 
tle  hands,  and  finally,  in  a  very  convulsion  of  merriment,  fiin^s 
herself  fairly  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  more  courtly  of  the  two 
lieutenants,  and  screams  her  laughter.  And,  taking  advantage  of 
her  "  situation,"  perhaps  misconstruing  the  action,  Moiyneaux 
wraps  her  in  close  embrace,  and  snatches  a  kiss  from  her  mouth ! 

The  act  is  requited,  quick  as  lightning,  with  a  slap,  laid  on  his 
cheek  soundly,  and  with  all  the  breadth,  and  weight,  and  muscle, 
of  her  little  hand.  And  she  tears  herself  away  from  his  clutch, 
and  says,  very  coolly  —  as  if  the  girl  simply  resented  the  imper 
tinence  of  the  forward  boy — 

"Look  you,  Moiyneaux,  don't  you  try  that  again,  or  you  shall 
have  it  harder.  I  don't  like  such  play.  I  won't  have  it." 

Play  ?  Moiyneaux  looks  confounded.  He  never  meant  it  for 
play.  He  can  not  well  understand  her.  Moiyneaux,  you  are  to 
remember,  is  only  a  cavalier,  not  a  philosopher.  He  was  trying 
to  teach  her  serious  things,  however,  and  she  takes  it  all  for  fun ; 
but  for  a  sort  of  fun  for  which  she  simply  has  not  a  bit  of  taste. 
What  a  strange  sort  of  education  she  has  had ! 

The  kiss  was  seen,  was  heard ;  and  so  —  much  more  cer 
tainly —  was  the  slap  ! 

And  the  horse-laugh  of  Eckles,  followed  by  that  of  all  the 
sailors,  echoed  throughout  the  circle,  and  somewhat  diverted  the 
merry  crew  from  the  humors  of  Madame  Sylvia. 

Moiyneaux,  with  red  face,  shot  a  thunderbolt  from  his  eyes  at 
Eckles,  which  only  made  him  laugh  the  more. 

But  the  sports  went  on.  Phipps's  fiddle  was  working  wonders ; 
and,  as  if  wholly  forgetting  kiss,  slap,  and  all  offence,  Zulieme, 
laughing  all  over,  threw  herself  into  an  attitude,  winning,  volup 
tuous,  graceful,  stretched  out  her  arms  to  Moiyneaux,  and  chal 
lenged  him  into  the  charmed  circle ;  and,  not  slow,  the  lieutenant 
leaped  forward,  wondering  still  at  her  capricious  temper  —  ice  and 
fire  by  turns  —  and  joined  in  the  passion-feeding  movements  of 
the  fandango. 

This  was  Zulieme's  great  accomplishment.  In  this  she  excelled 
all  her  sex.  Her  whole  person  was  suited  to  it.  Exquisitely 
modelled,  lithe,  giaceful;  her  tastes  harmonized  wondrously  with 


SIMPLY,    LEGS    AT    OUTLAWRY.  59 

•her  person,  to  exhibit  all  its  charms,  in  the  most  capricious  and 
voluptuous  movement.  Every  limb  consorted  with  the  action. 
The  whole  contour  of  her  figure  was  developed,  in  all  its  sym 
metry,  roundness,  beauty,  ease,  and  freedom.  And  the  expression 
of  face,  eyes,  mouth,  speaking  to  and  with  each  several  gesture, 
combined  to  make  the  successive  movements  so  many  studies  for 
the  artist ;  each  constituting  a  scene  to  itself,  but  all  happily 
blended,  so  as  to  form  a  story  of  eager  passion,  with  all  the  fluctu 
ations  of  love,  in  the  usual  caprices  of  young  and  amorous  hearts. 
Looking  at  her,  you  are  reminded  of  what  Ulysses  says  of 
Cressida :  — 

"  Fie,  fie  upon  her! 

There 's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip ; 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks.     Her  wanton  spirits  look  out, 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
Oh,  these  encountcrers,  so  glib  of  tongue, 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  ticklish  reader !  —  set  them  down, 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 
And  daughters  of  the  game." 

But  we  should  be  doing  Zulieme  injustice  were  we  to  apply  this 
language  to  her.  She  deserves  it  in  appearance  only.  Were  she 
a  Greek,  or  an  English  woman,  it  might  be  true.  But  it  is  not 
in  her  heart  or  her  passions  that  her  offence  lies.  It  is  because 
she  possesses  "  wanton  spirits,"  not  wanton  desires,  that  she  plays 
the  voluptuous  one.  It  is  with  her  just  so  much  play  —  nothing 
more.  She  is  an  actor,  and  in  her  part  of  the  play.  In  our  pres 
ent  sense  of  the  word,  she  is  not  voluptuous.  She  is.  in  fact, 
rather  cold  than  passionate.  Her  blood  dances  to  the  intoxication 
<)f  music  —  not  her  head  or  heart.  The  dances  suffice  her  —  are 
sufficiently  compensative  in  themselves,  conduct  to  nothing,  and 
rather  relieve  passion  than  provoke  it.  The  character  of  such  a 
woman  is  not  an  uncommon  one,  even  with  the  sterner  Anglo 
Norman  nature.  She  will  suffer  the  passionate  embraces  of 
Lieutenant  Molyneaux  in  the  dance,  but  not  otherwise.  She  will 
float  with  him  in  the  languor  of  soft  music,  or  dart  and  bound  to 
his  persuasions,  when  the  violin  discourses  with  enthusiasm ;  but 
if  he  ventures  to  kiss  her,  she  will  slap  his  face !  There  is  some- 


60  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

thing  serious  in  kissing  which  she  will  not  suffer ;  none  in  dancing 
waltzing  —  though  these  sometimes  demand  pretty  close  hug 
ging  —  none  in  fandango,  or  castanets ;  none,  in  brief,  in  the  fash 
ions  of  her  country,  which  train  the  sexes  to  familiarities,  through 
these  media,  which,  in  the  case  of  other  nations,  more  intense  and 
of  colder  climates,  would  inevitably  awaken  all  the  storms  of 
passion. 

And  thus  it  is,  that,  while  the  blood  of  Lieutenant  Molyneaux 
courses  through  his  veins  like  a  lava  flood,  the  bosom  of  Zulieme 
Calvert  beats  as  temperately  as  if  she  lay  at  ease  in  her  veran 
dah,  while  the  sweet  breezes  of  the  southwest  swept  over  with  an 
ever-fanning  wing,  waiting  upon  the  drowsiest  empress  that  ever 
sate  on  the  cushions  of  apathy. 

Lieutenant  Molyneaux  broke  down  in  the  dance.  But  thera 
was  no  breaking  down  in  Zulieme.  She  challenged  Eckles  to  the 
encounter ;  caught  him  by  the  arm,  forced  him  into  the  ring,  and 
soon  laughed  merrily,  as,  after  a  series  of  horrible  leaps,  bounds, 
and  " cavortings"  he  succumbed  also,  throwing  himself  down  upon 
the  sward,  and  declaring  himself  "  all  a  jelly  !" 

Zulieme  leaped  into  a  grapevine  ;  swang ;  called  for  her  guitar ; 
played  awhile ;  and,  while  she  played,  Molyneaux  placed  himself 
behind  her,  and  with  officious  hands  upon  her  person,  kept  lady 
and  swing  in  gentle  motion ;  and  with  all  this,  she  took  no  sort  of 
offence. 

But,  anon,  she  tired  of  the  guitar  and  swing ;  leaped  down, 
turned  to  Molyneaux,  forced  him  anew  into  the  waltz,  and  be 
trayed  as  much  grace,  elasticity,  and  vigor,  as  before. 

We  are  free  to  state,  that,  however  grateful  to  our  lieutenant, 
to  be  able  to  grasp  hand,  and  arm,  and  waist,  and  to  feel  her  warm 
breath  upon  his  cheek,  he  was  himself  troubled  with  a  shortness 
of  breath,  and  a  heaviness  of  limb,  which  made  his  movements 
almost  as  awkward  as  those  of  his  junior  officer,  Eckles. 

And  even  while  they  thus  swam  and  danced  together,  in  that 

ild,  warm,  fantastical  movement  of  the  American  Spaniards  —  an 

exaggeration  of  all  that  is  wild  and  voluptuous  in  the  dances  of 

the   Spaniards  in   the   old  world  —  in  the  regions   Biscayan  or 

Andalusian  —  there  came  other  spectators  to  behold  the  scene. 

On  the  edge  of  the  little  amphitheatre,  thus  occupied,  suddenly 
stood  Harry  Calvert  and  his  faithful  follower,  Jack  Belcher.  The 


SIMPLY,   LEGS   AT   OUTLAWRY.  61 

formei  leaned  against  a  tree,  with  folded  arras,  and  watched  the 
scene  for  a  while  with  a  gloomy  but  vacant  aspect.  He  had 
emerged  from  the  sylvan  recess  of  the  latter,  ere  he  had  ap 
proached  him,  and  found  Belcher  in  waiting.  The  more  violent 
emotions  of  the  captain  were  then  subdued,  but  a  deeper  tint  of 
sadness  bad  overspread  his  countenance ;  and,  as  now  he  gazes 
upon  the  voluptuous  and  fantastic  sports  of  his  wife  with  his 
young  and  amorous  lieutenant,  it  is,  perhaps,  quite  pardonable 
in  his  faithful  follower  to  assume  that  some  portion  of  the  fero 
cious  sadness  of  his  features  may  be  caused  by  the  lady's  levity,  to 
call  it  by  no  harsher  name.  And,  almost  unconsciously,  Belcher 
says  to  him  —  as  it  were  apologetically  — 

"It's  the  custom  of  the  people,  sir;  she  means  no  harm." 

"  Surely,  she  means  no  harm !  It  is  all  child's  play.  Songs 
and  dances  —  fools  and  fiddles.  Surely,  no  harm.  Surely  not, 
Jack." 

And,  speaking  thus,  Harry  Calvert  turned  away,  almost  con 
temptuously,  and  moved  slowly  out  of  the  woods. 

Was  it  pride,  was  it  indifference,  that  rendered  the  captain 
heedless  of  this  loose  indulgence  of  festivity  on  the  part  of  his 
wife  —  these  freedoms  of  her  sex,  so  unfamiliar  to  English  eyes, 
which,  in  spite  of  his  apologies,  revolted  those  of  Jack  Belcher  ? 
or  was  it  obtuseness  ?  Had  the  sensibilities  of  his  master  become 
so  callous,  or  brutified,  that  he  neither  saw,  nor  cared  to  see,  how 
eager  was  the  embrace  of  Molyneaux,  how  heedlessly  Zulieme 
yielded  herself  to  his  embraces  ?  He  could  see  the  satyr  in  the 
eyes  of  the  former — what  was  it  in  those  of  the  latter  which  made 
him  indifferent  ?  Perhaps  he  knew  her  sufficiently.  Perhaps  — 
but  wherefore  farther  supposes  ?  Enough,  that  he  says,  moving 
off,  with  Belcher  close  following : — 

"  A  child,  Jack  —  a  mere  child.  Child's  play  all.  Happy 
that  there  is  neither  thought  nor  memory  to  stir  up  passion,  or 
make  it  bitter !  Zulieme  is  simply  a  happy  child." 

And  the  two  walked  together  along  the  shores ;  and  their  far 
ther  talk  was  of  the  ship,  cargo  —  anything  but  love  or  woman. 
And,  as  they  went,  the  darkness  came  down,  and  the  moon  shot 
up  into  the  heavens,  and  the  stars  stole  out ;  and  fires  were  lighted 
in  the  woods  where  the  revellers  still  lingered ;  and  while  Zulieme 
strummed  the  guitar,  and  sang  some  of  those  wild  ballads,  Mooi 


62  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

ish  or  Castilian,  in  which  the  latter  language  is  so  prolific,  the 
merry  Jack  Tars  turned  their  dancing  into  a  drinking  party,  and 
the  clink  of  the  cannikin  served  to  soberize  their  antics,  in  gradu 
ally  bringing  them  into  the  province  of  drunkenness !  We  have 
no  homily  for  the  occasion.  They  were  less  virtuous  in  those 
days  than  we  in  ours. 

Meanwhile,  not  an  ear  heard  the  dip  of  that  paddle  which 
elowly  traced  the  windings  of  the  marsh  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Day  —  not  an  eye  beheld  that  "dugout"  of  the  redman,  as  it 
slowly  swept  along  under  cover  of  its  green  fringes,  a  mere  speck 
in  the  moonlight,  across  the  bay,  and  into  the  very  creek  where 
Dur  cruiser  lay  at  her  moorings.  But  a  little  while  had  elapsed, 
when  the  sharp,  snakelike  eyes  of  the  Indian  warrior  watched  the 
revellers  as  they  lay,  or  sate,  or  danced,  or  slept,  around  their 
ftres ;  never  fancying  that,  even  then,  there  was  one  near  who 
made  nice  calculations  of  the  number  of  white  scalps  which  might 
be  taken,  were  there  with  him,  instead  of  one,  but  a  score  of  his 
lithe  and  active  warriors ! 

And  the  two  redmen  stole  away  from  their  place  of  espionage 
in  the  gorge  of  the  forest,  and  behind  its  thickets ;  and  soon  the 
little  dugout,  which  had  been  simply  attracted  by  the  shouts 
of  the  revellers  to  see,  stole  once  more  quietly  out  of  the  creek, 
and  took  its  course  for  the  open  bay.  But,  this  time,  not  without 
observation.  Calvert  and  Belcher  were  upon  the  headland  as  it 
went.  The  keen  ears  of  the  former  heard  a  sound  of  paddles ; 
the  keen  eyes  of  the  latter  detected  the  slight  dark  speck,  as  it 
rounded  the  opposite  point  into  the  full  blaze  of  moon  and  star 
light  ;  and  the  summons  : — 

"  Who  goes  there  !"  was  only  a  moment  quicker  than  the  pistol- 
shot  which  aimed  to  punish  the  insolent  refusal  to  answer. 

That  pistol-shot,  ringing  clear  over  the  creek  and  forest,  brought 
the  revellers  from  the  thicket.  There  was  prompt  pursuit.  But 
the  canoe  of  the  redman  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Belcher  then 
reported  that  which  he  had  before  discovered,  and  rightly  divined 
this  to  be  the  same  canoe  which  he  had  seen  several  hours  before, 
steering  for  the  unknown  island  of  Kiawah. 

"The  Indians  are  not  here  yet  in  any  numbers,  sir,  but  it's 
well  to  look  out  for  them,  now  that  fish  have  begun  to  bite." 

"Nay,  'twill  not  need.     We  shall  be  gone  to-morrow." 


SIMPLY.    LEGS   AT    OUTLAWRY.  $% 

At  this  moment,  our  captain  and  his  follower  were  joined  by 
Zulieme  and  Molyneaux,  closely  accompanied  by  Eckles,  Sylvia, 
and  the  rest.  The  pistol-shot  had  served  to  end  the  revel.  Of 
course  there  were  a  thousand  agitating  queries,  which  were  soon 
answered,  but  without  satisfying  anybody.  When  Zulieme  found 
that  nothing  could  be  known,  she  was  all  reproaches  to  her  lord. 

"  To  break  up  the  dance  just  when  it  was  so  delicious.  I  was 
so  happy.  And  why,  Harry,  didn't  you  come  and  dance  with 
me,  instead  of  this  MoJyneaux?  lie's  so  slow,  and  he  wears  such 
tight  breeches,  that  he  can  do  nothing  in  them.  Now,  Harry,  you 
can  do  so  much  better,  and  you  wear  such  loose  breeches,  and 
you  can  stand  it  so  much  longer !" 

Calvert  smiled  sadly,  as  he  chucked  her  silently  under  the 
chin.  Belcher  noted  that  when  Molyneaux  presented  himself,  his 
master  smiled  again ;  but  he  fancied,  this  time,  that  it  was  quite 
another  sort  of  smile  —  that  there  was  something  sinister  in  it  — 
which,  had  he  been  the  object,  he  should  not  have  wished  to  see. 
And  Belcher  had  his  own  cogitations  in  respect  to  this  difference 
of  smile. 

"It's  one  thing  for  the  senora  to  be  free  in  them  Spanish 
fandangoes;  but  it's  a  very  different  thing  for  such  a  person  as 
Lieutenant  Molyneaux  to  have  the  freedom  too.  Oh,  yes,  indeed  ! 
That's  a  difference!  She's  not  thinking  at  all:  but  what's  he 
thinking  about  all  the  time  ?  Oh  !  I  know  him  —  and  I  reckon 
the  captain  knows  him  too.  His  thinking,  indeed !  The  goat !  the 
monkey!  But  let  him  look  to  it.  I  remember  that  sharp  smile  of 
Harry  Berkeley — Calvert,  I  should  say — from  the  time  when 
he  was  only  knee-high  to  a  cocksparrow ;  and  when  he  smiled  so 
through  them  half-shut  eyes,  there  was  mischief  in  it;  and  he's 
one  to  work  with  a  word  and  a  blow ;  and  the  word  is  just  so 
much  thunder,  always  after  the  flash." 

Like  all  favorite  body-servants,  Jack  Belcher  had  his  omens 
and  memories  together. 


04  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHATTER   VI. 

CLEOPATRA    IMPATIENT. 

"  Oh,  we  arc  children  all, 
That  vex  the  elements  with  idle  cries, 
For  playthings,  that  we  throw  away  anon, 
Seeking  still  others  ;  which  not  satisfy, 
But  mock  us  like  the  rest.     We  would  be  wise, 
And  are  but  wanton." 

PROMPT  in  execution  as  resolve,  the  captain  of  the  "  Happy- 
go-Lucky"  had  ordered  that,  with  the  dawning,  that  clever  little 
cruiser  should  be  got  ready  for  sea. 

Zulieme  was  awakened  ere  the  dawn  hy  the  rattling  of  bolts 
and  chains,  and  the  weighing  of  anchors.  She  started  up  from, 
no  doubt,  very  pleasant  slumbers  in  that  luxurious  cabin,  and 
found  herself  alone. 

That  cabin !  Cruisers,  privateers,  pirates,  are  all  understood 
to  have  luxurious  cabins.  This  is  the  conventional  understanding, 
among  your  writers  of  prose  fiction. 

And  there  is  reason  in  it.  Such  snuggeries  as  they  must  be,  in 
such  long,  low,  dark-looking  craft  as  these  generally  are,  must 
necessarily  imply  boxes  for  cabins,  such  as  would  better  suit  the 
physical  dimensions  of  elf  and  fairy  than  stalwart  men  of  Saxon 
brood.  And,  being  thus  small  and  snug,  why  not  lavish  upon 
them  the  nice  tastes  which  commend  the  cottage,  and  reconcile  us, 
through  beauty  and  neatness,  to  the  absence  of  vastness  and  mag 
nificence  ?  Besides,  having  the  wealth,  why  should  not  privateer, 
or  cruiser,  have  a  taste  ?  and  these  being  their  homes,  why  not 
make  them  as  cheerful  and  attractive  as  we  are  ail  apt  to  render 
our  cabins  when  dwelling  on  dry  land  ?  Something,  too,  of  the 
compensative  must  be  sought,  in  this  respect,  for  the  absence  of 
many  of  the  comforts,  to  say  nothing  of  the  ease  and  freedom 


CLEOPATRA    IMPATIENT.  60 

which  we  can  only  seek  upon  the  shores.  There  will,  accordingly, 
be  found  huddled  together  in  the  cabins  of  the  merest  seadogs  a 
variety  of  treasures,  such  as  we  rarely  find,  in  any  similar  space, 
in  other  situations.  There  will  be  luxuries  at  waste,  gauds  and 
gems,  toys  of  art  and  fancy,  and  appliances  of  enjoyment  and 
ostentation,  such  as  will  be  apt  to  confound  the  sight  of  the  lands 
man,  even  when  he  shall  happen  to  be  born  in  the  purple.  The 
privateers,  quasi  pirates,  of  the  days  of  good  Queen  Bess  were 
famous  for  their  ostentatious  habits  and  indulgences.  There  was 
Cavendish,  for  example,  who  entered  the  British  ports  with  silken 
sails,  as  well  as  streamers,  and  got  himself  knighted,  just  as  he 
showed  himself  a  man  of  taste  and  splendor,  as  well  as  a  man  of 
blood.  Stars  shine  famously  on  a  crimson  ground,  and  the  blend 
ing,  or  with  gules,  has  never  mortified  the  pride  of  any  nobility, 
ancient  or  modern. 

There  is  no  difficulty  in  reconciling  these  anomalies  of  taste  and 
mood  in  the  character  of  those  who  trace  back  to  the  northern 
vikings.  Enough,  that  most  cruisers  of  the  good  old  times,  when 
"  there  was  no  peace  beyond  the  line,"  found  it  ea  jy  to  discover  a 
propriety  in  such  combinations  of  voluptuous  glitter  with  the  most 
savage  outlawry. 

And  the  taste  has  hardly  died  out  in  the  present  day.  At  all 
events,  our  cruiser  of  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  was  sufficiently 
familiar  with  the  practice  of  the  preceding  generation,  and  suffi 
ciently  approved  it  to  continue  its  exercise :  though,  by  the  way, 
we  are  to  admit  that  much  of  his  present  display  was  due.  to  the 
simple  fact  that  the  fair  Zulieme  was  his  passenger.  (Qaery — 
why  passenger?  why  notpassager?)  The  magnificence  was  rather 
hers  than  his.  His  cabin,  hardly  more  than  twelve  feet  square  — 
an  empire  to  himself  alone  —  was  necessarily  so  decorated  as  to 
be  specially  pleasant  in  the  sight  of  his  wife.  He  did  not  stop  as 
to  the  necessary  expenditure.  Everything,  exquisitely  little,  in 
that  little  domain,  was  exquisitely  nice.  The  furniture,  the  fix 
tures,  were  all  of  fine  mahogany.  There  were  two  trim  sleeping 
places,  panoplied  with  gilding  and  purple.  Rich  curtains  of 
crimson  silk  draped  the  chamber.  There  was  a  most  exquisitely 
nice  divan,  covered  also,  back  and  cushion,  with  silken  draperies. 
There  was  a  pier-table  of  pearl-inlaid  ebony,  upon  which,  in  a 
wicker-work  of  gilt  wire,  stood  vases  filled  with  flowers^  that  were 


66  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

now  no  longer  fresh.  Bijouterie  —  chains,  and  clasps,  and  medal 
lions  —  lay  confusedly  on  this  table  ;  and,  something  of  a  contrast, 
poniards  and  pistols  —  enough  for  two  —  were  oddishly  among 
them.  And  rich  shawls  of  silk,  and  line  workmanship,  were  scat 
tered  over  couch  and  sofa  in  rare  confusion,  mocking  taste  with 
mere  exuberance  and  splendor.  And  there  were  gay  shining 
weapons,  cimeters  and  pistols,  that  hung  in  racks  against  the  wall ; 
and  a  lamp,  feebly  striving  to  give  forth  its  fires,  swung  suspended 
from  the  ceiling,  the  glasses  that  environed  it  being  of  thick  cut 
crystal.  Altogether,  the  snuggery,  if  small  enough  for  the  fair 
ies,  was  richly  enough  garnished  and  decorated  for  the  more  vo 
luptuous  genii  of  Eastern  fable  —  the  djinns  of  Gog  and  Magog 
dimensions. 

And  there,  starting  from  sleep  as  the  heavy  chain  falls  upon  the 
deck,  Zulieme  found  herself  alone. 

She  did  not  conjecture  that  the  cabin  had,  that  night,  enter 
tained  no  other  inmate  than  herself.  Her  lord  had  strode  the 
decks,  or  slept  upon  them,  through  all  the  watches  of  the  night. 
But  you  are  not  to  suppose  that  this  occasioned  her  any  concern. 

To  wrap  a  morning-gown  of  silk  about  her  shoulders ;  to  fling 
a  silken  turban  over  her  head ;  and  thus  in  dishabille,  with  black 
hair  dishevelled,  to  dart  up  the  steps  of  the  companion-way,  and 
hurry  to  the  quarter-deck,  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment,  calling 
for  no  single  interval  of  reflection,  with  any  creature  so  child 
ishly  impulsive. 

Harry  Calvert,  with  arms  folded,  eyes  half  shut,  and  looking 
inward  rather  than  outward,  sombre  as  a  thunder-cloud  —  hardly 
conscious  of  anything  but  that  he  was  obeyed  —  did  not  see  her 
approach,  till  he  felt  her  arm  on  his  shoulder.  He  acknowledged 
her  presence  with  a  start,  then  turned  away,  and  strode  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  vessel.  She  followed  him. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Harry?" 

"Matter!   what  matter!     Nothing's  the  matter!     Don't  yo 
see  we  're  at  sea  ?" 

"  Yes  :  but  where  bound  for,  Harry  ?" 

"  Charleston." 

"Oh!  I'm  so  glad.  So  you  were  only  plaguing  me  all  the 
while." 

"  Plaguing  you      /  plague  you  ?     Why  should  I  plague 


CLEOPATRA   IMPATIENT.  67 

Zulieme  ?  Why  plague  anybody  ?  Do  I  look  like  a  man  to 
engage  in  monkey-tricks  ?" 

And  verily,  none  might  reasonably  think  so,  judging  from  his 
brows  at  that  moment. 

"  Oh,  don't  think  to  scare  me,  Harry,  with  such  a  face." 

"  Scare  you  ?" 

"To  be  sure  —  scare  me.  If  you  don't  want  to  scare  me,  why 
do  you  look  so?  Boo!  There's  for  your  sulky  faces.  I'm  sure 
I  don't  mind 'em,  Harry;  and  now  that  we're  really  to  go  to 
Charleston,  you  may  blow  yourself  up  into  a  thunder-storm  as 
soon  as  you  please." 

And  she  hummed  and  lilted  as  usual,  swept  across  the  quarter 
deck  on  light  fantastic  toe,  then  darted  back  to  him,  and  with  hand 
again  on  his  shoulder,  asked  — 

"  But  how  long,  Harry,  before  we  get  there  ?" 

"It  may  be  half  a  day,  Zulieme  —  it  may  be  never! 

"  Now,  that 's  too  sulky.  Why  will  you  talk  so  ?  Half  a  day  ? 
I  must  go  and  begin  to  get  my  things  ready." 

And  she  disappeared  under  a  new  impulse.  He  gave  her  but 
a  single  glance,  then  turned  away,  and  looked  out  upon  the  dim 
waste  of  sea,  now  growing  white  in  the  increasing  light  of  morn 
ing,  as,  shooting  out  between  the  green  islets  that  guard  the  mouth 
of  the  Edisto,  our  cruiser  made  her  way  into  blue  water. 

With  a  fair  wind,  indeed,  it  needed  but  a  few  hours  to  bring  the 
ship  to  the  Charleston  entrance,  and,  in  the  case  of  one  of  such 
light  draft,  into  port.  But,  for  the  present,  our  cruiser  kept  the 
offing,  and  hung  off  and  on,  under  cover  of  the  shores,  her  masts 
hidden  behind  stripes  of  pine  forest. 

And  so  she  kept  till  twilight. 

Meanwhile  the  eager  and  giddy-souled  Zulieme,  with  all  the 
impatience  of  a  child  bent  upon  its  day  of  pleasure,  had  roused  up 
Sylvia,  and  set  Phipps  in  motion,  preparing  to  go  on  shore. 

The  cabin  was  soon  a  scene  of  wild  confusion.  Trunks  were 
rummaged  and  emptied.  Silks  and  satins,  gowns  and  garments, 
skirts  and  laces,  covered  couch  and  cushion.  She  made  her  toilet 
with  care ;  sat  in  deliberation  on  each  article  of  costume ;  chose 
and  rejected  each  in  turn,  until  Phipps  was  beside  himself,  and 
Sylvia  in  despair.  More  than  two  hours  were  thus  consumed ; 
and  when  she  ran  again  upon  deck,  to  ask  more  questions,  she  left 


68  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

to  her  Abigail  the  task  of  restoring  to  order  a  wardrobe,  ample 
enough  for  a  princess  of  the  blood,  which,  had  she  tried,  could 
scarcely  have  been  thrown  into  a  condition  of  more  admirable 
confusion.  But  Sylvia  was  more  patient  than  her  mistress ;  and 
in  two  hours  more  she  had  contrived  to  render  the  little  chamber 
once  more  habitable.  It  was  not  long  before  our  captain  drove 
her  headlong  from  it ;  flying  himself  from  the  perpetual  question 
ing  of  the  fair  Zulieme  on  deck. 

The  restless  senora  had  utterly  failed  to  extract  any  satisfaction 
from  her  lord.  She  next  had  recourse  to  Molyneaux.  But, 
whether  he  really  knew  nothing  of  the  purposes  of  his  superior,  as 
he  alleged ;  or  whether  he  had  taken  counsel  of  prudence  from 
the  warning  remonstrances  of  Eckles ;  or  whether,  as  is  more 
probable,  his  impudence  led  him  to  adopt  the  policy  of  piquing 
the  lady  into  a  better  recognition  of  his  own  importance ;  he  had 
suddenly  become  exceedingly  shy  of  his  communications.  She 
could  get  nothing  from  him  ! 

And  so  she  petted  and  pouted  through  half  the  day  ;  would  eat 
no  dinner  —  a  circumstance,  we  are  constrained  to  say,  that  had 
no  sort  of  influence  upon  the  appetites  of  either  of  the  lieutenants. 
Zulieme  was  somewhat  consoled  as  she  saw  that  her  lord  ate  as 
little  as  herself.  She  was  soon  again  upon  deck,  especially  as 
she  heard  the  ship  in  motion.  But  the  prospect  was  as  little 
grateful  as  before.  The  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  seemed  to  be  exer 
cising  herself,  simply  in  a  purposeless  progress ;  to  and  fro ;  in 
the  precincts  of  the  port  which  she  seemed  coy  to  enter,  yet  wist 
ful  of  the  approach.  It  lay  inviting  enough  before  her.  Sulli 
van's  island,  then  well  wooded,  lay  on  one  hand,  and  her  eye 
could  trace,  in  the  clear  atmosphere,  the  white  houses  in  the  city, 
some  six  miles  off  in  the  west.  It  needed  not  an  hour  to  reach 
the  goal.  And  that  hour  —  that  six  miles  —  were  these  to  be 
the  barriers  between  her  impatience  and  its  object  ?  And  why,  if 
not  to  enter,  had  they  come  hither,  and  thus  far?  Who  will  answer 

The  captain  kept  1  is  cabin.  He  had  already  been  employed 
through  certain  weary  hours,  writing,  reading,  examining,  and 
preparing  papers,  with  a  wilderness  of  them  spread  upon  the  table 
before  him.  A  savage  silence,  save  for  the  sounds  made  by  his 
pen,  and  the  rustle  of  unfolding  sheets,  prevailed  throughout  the 
chamber.  He  seemed  vexed,  wearied,  uneasv.  striving,  it  would 


CLEOPATliA    IMPATIENT.  6D 

seem,  to  concentrate  upon  inferior  objects  those  thoughts  which 
were  marvellously  willed  to  wander.  While  thus  engaged,  Zu- 
lieine  had  sought  him  repeatedly,  but  in  vain ;  failing  to  secure 
his  attention,  and  only  provoking  him  to  signs  of  impatience 
which,  with  some  effort  —  a  fact  she  scarcely  perceived  —  forbore 
to  express  itself  with  harshness  and  severity.  She  failed  entirely 
to  wear  or  worry  him  into  a  revelation  of  his  objects. 

u  Tell  me,  Harry  Calvert,"  said  she,  after  repeated  intrusions, 
**  what's  the  use  of  all  these  foolish  papers?  And  why  can't  you 
wait  to  do  them  till  you  get  to  Charleston  ?  And  why,  now  that 
we've  got  here,  why  do  you  wait  at  the  door,  as  if  wanting  per 
mission  to  go  in?  What's  to  prevent?  Molyneaux  says  there's 
water  a  plenty  and  wind  in  the  right  quarter,  and  that  it  only 
needs  an  hour  to  be  at  the  docks.  And  don't  you  see  I'm  ail 
dressed  and  ready  to  go  ashore  ?  I  shall  die  if  you  keep  me 
another  night  at  sea.  And  I  won't  be  kept.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Harry  ?" 

He  had  hardly  heard  a  syllable ;  but  he  answered,  "  Yes,  I 
hear,"  —  but  without  once  looking  up. 

"  Harry  Calvert,  you  are  a  great  sulky  cayman ;  and  I  'm  only 
sorry  that  I  ever  saw  you." 

He  seemed  to  hear  that,  and  answered,  very  soberly,  while  still 
continuing  to  write  — 

"  So  am  I,  Zulieme,  very  sorry." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  you  great  alligator  man  !  I  tell 
you,  Harry,  I'm  sorry  1  ever  nursed  you,  and  made  you  well; 
for  you  don't  care  if  I  die  here,  in  your  vile  vessel.  Oh  !  you've 
cheated,  and  deceived  me,  and  made  a  fool  of  me,  Harry  Calvert, 
and  I  hate  you !  —  I  do,  Harry,  and  I  never  did  care  about  you ; 
and  if  I  told  you  so,  I  lied.  You  hear  me  —  I  tell  you,  I  never 
loved  you,  and  I  lied  when  I  said  so." 

It  is  charity  to  suppose  that  the  person  thus  addressed  never 
heard  a  syllable  of  this  grateful  assurance.  He  simply  nodded 
his  head  approvingly,  and  went  on  writing.  She  looked  at  him  a 
moment  with  a  stronger  expression  of  indignation  than  she  had 
yet  shown,  then  rushed  again  on  deck  to  the  courtly  lieutenant. 

"  Look  you,  Mr.  Molyneaux,  didn't  you  tell  me  there  was  noth 
ing  to  prevent  our  going  to  Charleston  ?" 

"  No,  senora,  I  did  not." 


70  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    K1A.NVAH. 

"  But  I  say  you  did  !" 

"  You  misunderstood  me,  senora.  I  said  that  neither  wind  nor 
tide  prevented." 

"  Well,  that 's  the  same  thing." 
"No,  ask  the  captain." 

"Ask  the  great  bear  and  the  grand  cayman.  He's  a  brute  and 
monster,  and  won't  hear  a  word  I  say.  Now,  I  ask  you,  if  the 
wind  and  water  serve,  what's  to  keep  us  here — what  prevents 
our  going  in  ?" 

"  Nothing,  but  the  captain.  He  says  « no,'  and  the  wind  and 
water  must  wait  on  him." 

"  But  /won't." 

"  Ah,  Zulieme,  a  beautiful  woman  like  yourself  may  do  what 
she  pleases."  And  the  lieutenant  smiled  very  dutifully,  as  he 
looked  up  and  said  these  words  in  very  subdued  accents.  "  You 
can  will  and  others  must  wait." 

"How's  that,  when  here  I  can't  get  any  of  you  to  stir  and 
carry  me  to  Charleston  ?  Don't  tell  me  such  things,  and  don't 
you  call  me  beautiful,  when  you  don't  mind  a  word  I  say.  Ah ! 
before  I  was  married,  everybody  minded  me.  Now  they  all  treat 
me  just  as  if  I  were  a  troublesome  child.  I  wonder  what  I  ever 
got  married  for.  I'm  sure  I'm  sick  of  it." 

"  You  have  reason,"  said  the  courtly  lieutenant,  with  tones  of 
sympathy,  and  looking  into  her  face  with  the  utmost  tender 
ness. 

"That  I  have;  and  I'll  never  come  with  Harry  again,  though 
he  begs  me  on  his  bended  knees.  I'd  have  died  here,  if  I 
hadn't  had  you  to  amuse  me.  But  tell  me,  Molyneaux,  why 
don't  Harry  go  up  to  Charleston?  What's  the  reason?  Don't 
you  know  ?" 

He  answered  her  only  with  a  very  annoying,  provoking  smile, 
which  seemed  to  say,  plainly  enough  — 

"  Well,  yes,  1  do  know,  but  you  are  not  to  know." 

So  she  understood  the  smile. 

"  But  I  will  know,  Mr.  Molyneaux." 

He  smiled  still  more  knowingly,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Now  do  n't  you  make  that  impudent  motion  again.  I  won't 
have  it.  You  mustn't  treat  me  so,-I  tell  you." 

Molyneaux  was   suddenly  seized  with   a  feeling  of  profound 


CLEOPATRA    IMPATIENT.  71 

duty,  and  grew  busied  with  certain  charts  of  the  old  Spanish 
geographers. 

Just  as  suddenly,  she  pulled  the  great  sheets  from  his  hands, 
and  scattered  them  about  the  deck. 

"  Now,  I  say,  listen  to  me  and  answer." 

Stooping  and  picking  up  the  charts,  with  great  placidity, 
Molyneaux  looked  up  and  said,  in  subdued  tones,  softly  and 
insinuatingly  — 

u  Ah,  senora,  would  you  treat  the  captain  so  ?" 

"  And  why  not,  if  he  will  not  answer  ?" 

The  courtly  lieutenant  shook  his  head  in  denial. 

"  Better  not  try  it,  Zulieme,  while  he  is  in  his  present  humor." 

"  But  I  will  try  it !     What  do  I  care  for  his  humors  ?" 

"  Nay,  senora,  I  do  not  suppose  that  you  do  care  much ;  but,  I 
know  you  would  never  dare  do  to  him  what  you  have  just  done 
to  the  poor  lieutenant  of  this  ship." 

The  wilful  creature  darted  below  on  the  instant.  Looking 
after  her,  with  a  cunning  smile  upon  his  countenance,  Molyneaux 
caught  the  eyes  of  Jack  Belcher  fixed  steadily  upon  him. 

"  Did  that  fellow  hear  me  ?"  quoth  he  to  himself.  Then,  a 
moment  after,  with  a  reckless  air,  and  half  aloud,  "  If  he  did,  I 
care  not." 

He  was  not  quite  so  indifferent  as  he  said.  Still  less  was  he 
indifferent  to  the  events  which  were  probably,  even  then,  going  on 
in  the  captain's  cabin ;  but  he  concentrated  his  whole  regards  now 
upon  the  charts  which  he  had  gathered  up  from  the  deck,  and 
seemed  heedless  of  everything  besides. 

Meanwhile,  all  below  was  silent  to  the  ears  of  those  above ;  and 
yet,  to  those  who  had  witnessed  the  scene,  the  feeling  was  one  of 
suspense  and  anxiety.  The  ears  of  Molyneaux,  however  seem 
ingly  indifferent,  were  watchful.  So  were  those  of  Jack  Belcher. 
He  had  heard  every  syllable.  Though  of  coarser  -^lay,  and  infe 
rior  education,  yet  his  instincts,  improved,  by  love  for  his  master, 
were  just  and  sagacious.  He  could  see  —  he  suspected  —  the 
mischievous  purposes  of  Molyneaux.  He  could  also  suspect  their 
source.  He  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  go  below,  and 
interpose,  if  necessary,  in  the  scene  which  he  anticipated.  But 
he  dared  not.  He  pitied  the  silly  child,  who,  in  a  false  relation 
ship  to  his  and  her  superior,  was  thus  made  a  tool  for  mischief  in 


T2  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAfi. 

the  hands  of  one  who  could  easily  make  it  appear  that  his  whole 
course  was  natural  enough,  if  not  absolutely  proper.  We  may 
readily  understand  how  he  should  be  uneasy  —  how  Molyneaux 
himself  should  be  anxious  —  about  the  result  of  this  ridiculous 
proceeding. 

But  no  sounds  reached  them  from  below.  Yet  had  Zulieme 
kept  the  silly  purpose  for  which  she  had  darted  down.  She  had 
approached  her  lord  without  a  word  of  premonition.  "With  one 
fell  swoop  she  had  swept  the  papers  from  the  table  to  tho  floor, 
exclaiming  — 

"  You  sha'  n't  bother  with  these  papers  any  more,  Harry,  You 
shall  come  on  deck  and  talk  with  me,  and  answer  me  oil  my 
questions." 


SHADOWS    ON    THE   SEA. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

SPIADOWS    ON   THE    SEA. 

"  Know  that  the  fates,  frail  creature,  have  decreed 
Thy  bondage  to  a  power  that  broods  in  gloom, 
While  thou  Avouldst  sing  in  fancy :  that  will  mar 
Thy  music,  which  hath  taken  an  April  chirp 
From  nature,  and  in  place  of  pleasant  carol, 
Make  it  a  boding  omen,  still  of  evil !" 

THE  act  was  like  a  flash  —  quick  as  lightning  —  one  for  which 
not  a  syllable  had  prepared  our  cruiser.  He  had  not  heard  or  seen 
her  approach  —  was  deeply  busied  in  the  work  before  him,  which 
seemed  to  tax  all  his  attention,  and  to  absorb  his  whole  existence. 

But  with  the  act  he  started  into  terrible  consciousness  —  started 
to  his  feet,  thrust  the  table  from  before  him,  and  confronted  her 
with  uplifted  hand  and  clenched  fingers.  His  brow  was  dark  like 
a  thunder-storm  ;  there  was  a  lurid  fire  in  his  glance  that  seemed 
to  smite ;  and  the  veins  grew  suddenly  corded  across  his  forehead. 
The  change  was  instantaneous.  Never  had  Zulieme  beheld  such 
a  countenance  in  man — never  such  a  look  from  him,  the  power 
ful  man  before  her.  She  recoiled  from  it,  as  with  all  the  instinct 
of  imbecility,  cowered,  crouched ;  and  the  broken  murmur  from 
her  lips,  speaking  which  she  was  hardly  conscious,  attested  her 
first  sense  of  her  own  folly  and  of  his  rage. 

"Oh,  Harry!  don't  —  don't  strike  me." 

"  Strike  you  !"  was  the  hoarsely-spoken  answer. 

"Strike  you!"  and  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  fullest  height, 
and  threw  his  arms  behind  him,  as  if  fearing  to  trust  his  own 
emotions.  And  it  was  admirable  to  behold  the  wonderful  effort 
which  the  strong  man  made  —  in  his  pride,  in  all  the  conscious 
ness  of  power  —  to  subdue  himself,  as  Strength  ever  should  in  the 
conflict  with  Imbecility.  In  a  moment  his  countenance  had  be 
come  composed.  There  was  still  a  quiver  of  the  muscles  which 

4 


T4  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  woman  did  not  see.  And  then  he  stooped  down  deliberately 
and  began  picking  up  the  scattered  papers,  as  quietly  as  Moly- 
neaux  had  done  on  a  similar  occasion  overhead.  The  woman 
little  dreamed  that  he  thus  employed  himself  only  to  gain  time  in 
the  struggle  with  his  own  passions.  She  said  something,  and 
laughed  hysterically,  seeing  him  so  employed;  then,  with  sudden 
impulse,  she  sprang  to  assist  in  gathering  up  the  sheets  of  paper. 
And  he  suffered  her,  but  continued  himself,  until  all  the  documents 
were  restored  to  the  table.  This  done,  he  said  —  and  with  a  tone 
so  sad,  accents  so  subdued,  an  emphasis  so  melancholy,  that  the 
simple  words  had  in  them  a  significance  which  even  she  could 
feel,  and  which  no  language  could  define  — 
"  It  is  you,  Zulieme." 

He  did  not  say  so,  but  we  may,  that,  had  the  offender  been  a 
man  —  any  other  person,  indeed  —  he  would  have  brained  him 
where  he  stood.  There  would  not  have  been  a  word  spoken. 

He  took  her  hand.  He  led  her  to  the  divan,  seated  her,  and 
stood  before  her.  She  was  now  submissive  enough  to  all  his 
movements. 

"  Zulieme  Calvert,  you  once  saved  my  life  ;  and  —  you  are  my 
wife.  God  forbid  that  aught  should  ever  make  me  forget  what 
you  are,  what  I  owe  you,  and  what  I  am  !  But,  sit  here.  I  must 
speak  with  you.  It  is  necessary  that  1  should  try,  at  least,  to  lift 
you  into  some  sense  of  what  you  are,  what  I  am,  and  what  is  abso 
lutely  necessary  between  us." 
"  Oh,  Harry,  it  was  all  fun." 

"  Life,  Zulieme,  is  not  a  funny  thing.  Men  and  women  are  not 
made  for  fun.  Life  is  a  sad,  serious  thing,  in  which  fun  is  very 
apt  to  be  impertinence.  If  I  were  dying  on  that  couch  before 
you,  would  you  think  the  affair  funny?  Would  it  makt  you 
funny?  Would  you  laugh,  sing,  dance,  while  I  lay  struggling  with 
the  last  enemy  of  man?  There  are  women  —  wives,  it  is  said  — 
who  would  rejoice  at  such  a  spectacle ;  but  even  they  would  deem 
it  proper  to  conceal  their  delight.  They,  at  least,  would  not  con 
fess  that  it  was  funny  in  their  eyes,  or  try  to  make  it  appear  so 
to  the  eyes  of  others." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  how  can  you  speak  so  —  and  to  me  —  when  you 

know " 

u  Do  I  not  tell  you  that  I  believe  you  saved  my  life  ?  do  I  not 


SHADOWS   ON   THE   SEA.  75 

avow  that  I  am  your  husband  ?     Let  this  assure  you  that  I  will 
not  forget,  in  what  I  say,  what  are  the  relations  between  us." 

"  But  oh  !  Harry,  to  speak  of  your  dying  —  and  that  I  should 
be  funny !" 

"  I  did  not  say  that,  Zulieme.  Hear  what  I  do  say :  when,  in 
your  fun,  you  tore  the  papers  from  my  table,  I  wras  writing  my 
last  will  and  dying  testament." 

"  Ah  —  Dios  !    O,  Harry  !  why  should  you  write  such  things?" 

"  Because,  the  very  hour  that  takes  you  into  Charleston,  for 
which  you  long  so  much,  may  take  me  to  the  gallows." 

She  answered  with  a  scream  of  horror.     Pie  soothed  her. 

"  Let  this  secure  me  your  attention.  If  you  will  be  funny 
Zulieme,  pray  be  attentive  also." 

"  You  stab  me  to  the  soul,  Harry." 

"And  I  must  so  stab  you  to  the  soul,  Zulieme,  if  only  to  make 
you  feel  that  you  have  one.  If,  in  the  pursuit  of  your  merest 
pleasures,  your  soul  becomes  insensible  to  the  anxieties  and  suffer 
ings  of  those  whom  you  profess  to  love,  of  what  use  to  have  a 
soul  at  all?  It  is  sometimes  necessary  to  bruise  the  plant  to  make 
it  give  forth  its  precious  virtues ;  so,  to  the  cold  or  sleeping  soul 
it  needs  that  we  should  sometimes  give  an  almost  mortal  stab,  in 
order  that  we  may  make  it  feel  that  life,  of  which  otherwise  it 
makes  no  sign.  You  have  seen  that  I  suffer,  yet  you  heed  not ; 
you  have  been  told  that  I  have  cares,  yet  you  despise  them ;  I 
have  shown  you  that  I  command  a  turbulent  people,  who  would 
soon  cease  to  obey  if  I  failed  in  proper  authority,  yet  you  wan- 
tcnly  put  that  authority  in  danger.  But  of  these  things  I  have 
already  spoken,  and  always  in  vain.  I  will  speak  of  them  no 
longer.  I  fear,  from  what  I  know  of  you,  that  the  impressions, 
even  of  a  great  terror,  will  possess  your  soul  only  for  an  instant ; 
that  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  a  bird  song,  the  sound  of  music,  the 
laughter  of  a  child,  the  voice  of  a  gallant  in  compliment  —  or  his 
hand  in  the  dance  —  will  make  you  forget  that  Danger  stands 
waiting  at  the  door,  and  that  Death  lurks,  looking  over  your 
shoulder,  as  over  mine." 

tf  Ch  !  Harry,  what  a  fool  you  must  think  me  !" 

"  A  child,  Zulieme  ;  but  one  that  can  never  grow.  Your  whole 
people  are  children.  You  have  no  voice  in  the  soul,  no  urgent 
thought,  which  compels  growth.  Happy  only,  if  the  world's  cares 


76  THE   CASSIQUE    OP   KIAWAH. 

and  yojr  own  resources  will  let  you  remain  a  child  —  let  you  sing, 
dance,  sleep." 

He  paused,  strode  away,  then  turned  and  resumed.  She  would 
have  spoken,  but,  with  uplifted  hand,  he  silenced  her. 

"  No,  Zulieme,  you  must  hear  me  now.  You  force  me  to  speak. 
In  marrying  me,  you  married  a  care  —  I  a  child.  We  were  both 
in  error.  I  have  brought  you  into  an  atmosphere  for  which  you 
are  unaccustomed.  You  should  have  married  a  man  \vho  was 
willing  to  dream  away  life,  among  the  plains  or  hills  of  the  isth 
mus,  between  dance  and  siesta.  I  am  one  whom  care  and  thought 
do  not  permit  to  sleep.  You  are  a  bird,  that,  even  in  sleep,  must 
sing.  You  are  not  asked  to  do  battle  in  the  storm.  My  whole 
life  is  a  battle.  Mine  is  a  life  of  passion.  You  know  not  what 
passion  is.  You  sob  and  sleep,  sing  and  sleep,  prattle  and  sleep, 
and  sleep  comes  to  you,  rounding  life  with  dream,  and  rousing  it 
only  to  new  dreams  with  the  morning.  What  had  you,  poor 
Zulieme,  to  do  with  a  stern,  dark,  careful  man  like  me  ?  I  have 
brought  you  to  '  an  experience  of  care,'  to  a  life  of  thought,  for 
which  you  have  no  sympathy.  It  was  my  fault,  perhaps,  Zulieme, 
and  your  misfortune.  And  so,  we  live  in  different  worlds,  Zu 
lieme,  and  though  we  do  not  part,  we  never  meet.  When  we 
meet,  your  song  is  spoiled.  I  make  for  you  a  sky  in  which  no 
bird  can  sing,  unless  the  hawk,  the  vulture,  the  cormorant.  Is  it 
not  so,  Zulieme  ?" 

"I  don't  know7,  Harry;  only  I  feel  you  are  saying  terrible 
things  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  hear  you  !" 

"  But  you  must  hear  now.  The  time  has  come  when  you  must 
be  made  to  see  clearly  how  vast  a  space  divides  us  —  makes  for 
us  different  \vorlds  and  fates.  Your  world  changes  every  day, 
sometimes  every  hour.  Of  the  fates,  you  take  no  more  care  than 
the  bird.  To-day,  you  would  find  your  sufficient  world  in  Charles 
ton.  In  that  little  town  of  twelve  hundred  people,  you  would 
dnnce  and  sing,  quite  satisfied,  so  long  as  there  came  a  crowd  to 
admire,  and  a  good  waltzer  to  be  your  partner.  And  so  would  it 
be  in  Havana.  To  me  these  are  all  childish  things." 

"Harry,  don't  talk  to  me  any  more.  I  won't  dance  again.  I 
will  never " 

"  Nay,  that  will  be  to  give  up  your  life,  Zulieme.  Do  not  be 
impatient.  You  have  forced  me  to  speak,  and  you  must  hear, 


SHADOWS   ON   THE   SEA.  77 

and  I  promise  you  that  I  will  not  again  speak  to  you,  in  this  man 
ner,  till  you  shall  again  force  me.  Now,  you  must  let  me  finish. 
I  shall  never,  Zulieme,  cease  to  repent  the  selfishness  and  weak 
ness  that  made  me  marry  you.  I  should  have  known  the  dangers 
and  the  sufferings  to  which  such  an  alliance  would  expose  you. 
I  should  have  known  you  well  enough  to  see  that  you  were  unfitted 
for  the  encounter.  And  I  did  know  it.  But  I  was  weak  after 
long  sickness,  and  you  were  very  beautiful,  Zulieme,  and  very 
tender,  and  you  had  saved  my  life  by  your  nursing,  Zulieme." 

"Ah,  Harry,  but  didn't  I  nurse  you  well?" 

"  No  one  could  have  done  it  better." 

"  Yet,  you  are  so  cross  to  me." 

"  Cross !  alas,  Zulieme,  I  try  in  vain  to  teach  you.  Cross ! 
Child  —  woman  !  were  you  any  other  than  you  are,  I  would  have 
towi  you  limb  from  limb,  and  thrown  you,  without  remorse  or 
scruple,  to  the  sharks  of  yonder  deep  sea." 

"  Harry  !  —  you  horrid  Harry." 

"Ay,  I  am  tender  to  you,  Zulieme  —  tender  for  my  nature; 
considerate  of  yours.  But  I  must  try  and  make  clear  to  you  the 
absolute  truths  in  my  situation,  however  impossible  to  make  you 
comprehend  the  necessities  of  my  nature,  or  of  the  character  of 
yours.  When  we  married,  I  was  weak,  and  sick,  and  sore,  and 
mortified.  I  had  suffered  a  great  disappointment." 

"Ah!  I  know  —  there  was  a  lady,  Harry.  And  I  know  her 
name,  too.  You  called  her  often  enough  when  you  were  out  of 
your  head.  And  you  married  me,  a  poor  child  you  say,  because 
she  wouldn't  have  you.  That's  it,  Harry." 

"That's  not  it,  Zulieme.  The  woman  of  whom  you  speak  was 
mine,  all  mine  —  heart,  soul,  voice  —  all !  all !" 

"  And  why  did  you  not  marry  her,  then  ?" 

"  I  was  an  outcast,  an  exile ;  but  seeking  fortune  that  I  might 
do  so;  and  in  this  search  I  was  wrecked,  narrowly  escaped 
drowning,  found  my  way  to  -your  father's  hacienda,  and  narrowly 
escaped  dying ;  and,  after  seventeen  dreary  months  of  absence 
from  home,  she  was  made  to  marry  another.  But,  do  not  force 
me  upon  this,  Zulieme.  Rather  hear  what  I  would  say  in  regard 
to  the  present,  and  ourselves ;  let  the  past  bury  its  own  dead. 
Enough  for  me  —  sad  solace  that  it  is  —  I  knew  her  to  be  faithful ; 
feel  that  she  has  been  betrayed  by  those  who  should  have  been 


78  THF   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

true ;  feel  that  she  has  suffered  like  myself;  that  never  pang  went 
to  my  heart  that  did  not  find  its  way  to  hers.  Let  there  be  no 
more  of  this.  Let  it  suffice  you  that  I  am  your  husband  —  that 
she  is  now  the  wife  of  another." 

Here  he  paused,  strode  aside  with  averted  face,  and  hastily 
swallowed  a  cup  of  water. 

"  Your  father  found  me  a  dying  man,  almost  glad  to  die.  Had 
I  been  conscious  when  he  took  me  into  his  dwelling,  I  had  cei 
tainly  died.  Insensibility,  however,  came  to  the  relief  of  nature, 
and  in  the  very  aberration  of  intellect  the  animal  recovered.  It 
was  with  pain  only  that  I  grew  to  consciousness,  and  your  fond 
nursing,  Zulieme,  gave  me  the  first  pleasant  impression  of  return 
ing  life  and  health.  I  do  not  reproach  you  ;  I  am  grateful.  Yet, 
a  thousand  times  better  had  it  been,  for  you  as  well  as  me,  had 
your  sire  and  self  suffered  me  to  perish  on  the  burning  highways, 
ere  you  took  me  to  the  shelter  of  your  hacienda." 

"  No  !  no  !  Harry  —  no  !" 

"Ah!  you  know  not  yet  the  end.  And  how  it  all  must  end. 
The  sting  is  yet  to  come.  You  are  of  light  heart,  a  bird  nature, 
and  you  will  not  feel  it  long.  There  is  consolation  in  that." 

"But,  Harry  —  don't " 

"  Stay,  Zulieme,  hear ! 

"  Your  father's  protection,  your  cares,  a  vigorous  constitution, 
and,  perhaps,  my  utter  mental  unconsciousness  for  the  time,  saved 
my  life.  Your  father  helped  me  with  his  means.  I  bought  a 
share  in  this  vessel.  I  finally  became  sole  proprietor.  I  made 
her  famous.  She  became  the  terror  of  the  Spaniard  on  the  seas. 
And  here,  in  this  and  other  ports  of  the  English,  she  was  ever 
welcome  as  a  Spanish  terror.  The  Spaniards  had  been  their  ter 
ror.  They  knew  them  only  as  enemies  ;  could  know  them  only  as 
enemies ;  and  he  who  strove  with  the  Spaniard  was  to  them  an 
ally  and  a  friend.  I  was  one  of  these.  The  English  people 
knew  me  as  a  friend,  and  when  I  tore  down  a  Spanish  flag  I  was 
hailed  by  the  plaudits  of  my  people.  To  do  this  very  work  I  had 
the  commission  of  my  king ;  yet,  he  now  abandons  me.  Bribed 
by  the  Frenchman,  bullied  by  the  Spaniard,  faithless  to  himself 
and  people,  my  own  king  sacrifices  me  to  the  foes  of  both.  He 
disavows  my  commission ;  he  denounces  me  as  a  pirate  of  the 
eeas,  whom  it  is  permitted  to  all  men  to  destroy." 


SHADOWS   ON   THE   SEA.  79 

"Oh  Harry,  I  wouldn't  fight  for  him  again.  Leave  these 
English  ;  they're  a  hoggish  sort  of  people  —  leave  them  and  live 
with  our  people.  And  why  should  you  follow  the  seas,  Harry  ? 
What's  the  use?  It  isn't  money  that  you  want.  You  have 
enough,  and  I  have  enough,  arid  we'll  go  back  to  the  Isthmus, 
where  no  English  can  ever  find  us  out;  and  there,  0  Harry, 
there  we  can  be  so  happy.  No  troubles,  Harry ;  no  cares ;  noth 
ing  but  dancing  and  delight,  and  fruits  arid  pleasures.  Let  us  go, 
Harry  ;  let  us  leave  this  place  ;  and  leave  the  seas ;  and  have  no 
more  trouble,  safe,  high  up  in  the  mountains  of  the  Isthmus." 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Rather  a  single  year  of  life,  all  storm  and  battle,  than  the 
stagnation  of  such  a  life.  No  peace,  no  calm  for  me,  Zulieme.  I 
can  now  live  only  in  the  storm.  This  is  what  I  fail  to  make  you 
understand.  My  lot  is  cast  on  reefs  of  danger,  through  seas  of 
storm,  with  rocks  on  either  hand,  and  the  hurricane  for  ever  on 
the  wing.  It  requires  all  my  manhood  to  steer  amid  these  dan 
gers.  It  is  not  for  me  to  skulk  them.  But,  though  I  do  not  fear 
them,  and  will  meet  them  as  becomes  a  proper  manhood,  I  do  not 
find  it  easy  to  win  merriment  from,  or  seek  it  while  I  am  in  the 
death-struggle  with,  these  warring  elements.  And  when  I  am  thus 
wrestling  for  life,  it  is  not  easy  to  endure  the  jest,  or  the  peevish 
humors,  of  one  even  who  has  saved  my  life  !  —  even  a  woman  — 
even  a  wife !  a  being  whom,  in  moments  of  thought,  we  regard  as 
a  thing  to  cherish  close  to  the  heart,  and  not  to  gaze  on  with  look 
of  less  than  kindness.  Do  you  see  now  why  it  is  that  I  go  to 
Charleston  with  mood  so  different  from  yours  ?" 

"  Do  not  go,  Harry  —  do  not!  I  did  not  know  that  there  was 
danger.  I'm  sure,  Harry,  I  don't  care  to  go  there.  Why  should 
I  care  ?  I  can  be  seen  by  quite  as  many  people  in  Havana,  and 
then  we  have  a  thousand  times  better  dancing,  I  'm  sure !  No ! 
no  !  Do  n't  go  there,  Harry.  Rather  go  home,  to  our  old  home 
on  the  isthmus." 

"  I.  must  go,  Zulieme,  though  the  gallows  waits  me  at  the  dock  ! 
But  I  will  do  nothing  rashly,  Zulieme,  unless  goaded  to  it  by  your 
passion  for  the  dance,  and  by  the  passions  of  others  not  so  inno 
cent." 

"  What  passions  —  what  others  ?" 

"  Enough,  that  they  are  unknown  to  you.     In  that  ignorance  is 


80  THE   CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

my  security  —  and  yours  !  You  know,  now,  why  I  avoid  Charleston 
by  daylight — why  I  hide  my  vessel  among  these  headlands,  and 
under  cover  of  these  pines.  With  midnight  we  will  run  into  port ; 
we  will  run  up  Ashley  river,  and  harbor  there  in  a  well-known 
place  of  security.  I  will  go  ashore  in  disguise.  You  will  remain 
on  board  till  I  tell  you  that  you  may  come  forth  in  safety.  You 
must  be  content  with  this.  If  not  —  if  stimulated  by  any  foclitJi 
love  of  show  or  amusement  you  allow  yourself  to  be  discovered  — 
it  may  lead  to  my  ruin.  You  must  rely  on  me  so  as  to  believe 
that  the  restraint  I  put  upon  you  for  awhile,  is  absolutely  neces 
sary  for  my  safety." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  I  will  mind  all  that  you  say." 

"  One  word  more :  beware,  Zulieme,  how  you  mind  anybody 
else." 

"Who  else  should  I  mind,  Harry,  but  you  ?  And  if  I  don't 
mind  you  always,  Harry,  it's  because  you  are  such  a  great  Eng 
lish  bear  sometimes  ;  showing  such  great  teeth  and  such  big  paws, 
and  not  letting  a  body  laugh  as  much." 

And  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  He 
loosed  himself  tenderly  from  her  hold,  took  her  to  the  cabin-en 
trance,  and  put  her  out —  even  as  one  gently  puts  out  of  the  win 
dow  the  little  bird  which  has  flown  into  his  chamber  unadvisedly, 
and  which,  ignorant  of  his  purpose,  is  throbbing  with  terror  under 
neath  his  hands.  But  he  had  scarce  done  so,  when  she  returned : 

"  Harry,  let  me  stay  here  awhile.     I  can 't  go  up  there  now." 

"  Very  well.     Lie  down,  Zulieme." 

"  Yes,  yes  !     That 's  what  I  want !" 

And  throwing  herself  down  upon  the  divan  behind  him,  whil£ 
he  went  on  writing,  her  great  black  eyes  suddenly  gushed  out 
with  tears. 

But  she  suppressed  the  sobs. 

After  awhile,  she  started  up  and  cried  out : — 

"  O  Harry  !  there  was  no  truth  in  what  you  said  about  the  gal 
lows.  You  only  meant  to  scare  me." 

"  What  my  danger  may  be,  Zulieme,  I  know  not.  It  may  not 
be  the  gallows.  It  may  not  even  be  death.  But  there  is  danger." 

He  now  distinctly  heard  the  sobbing.  She  could  no  longer  sub 
due  it.  He  rose,  went  to  her,  and,  bending  over  her,  kissed  her 
tenderly,  while  he  said : — 


SHADOWS   ON   THE   SEA.  81 

"Zulieme,  I  don't  think  my  neck  will  ever  be  defiled  by  a  hal 
ter.  But  it  is  certain  that  I  am  threatened  with  it  by  mv  king. 
By  yours  I  am  threatened  with  the  garote.  But  I  am  in  danger 
from  neither  shame,  Zulieme,  while  I  have  my  strength  and  senses 
about  me,  and  carry  such  a  friend  as  this  convenient  to  my  grasp." 

And  he  touched  the  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  pointed  to  certain 
daggers  that  hung  wiihin  reach  against  the  wall. 

She  started  up,  and  drew  the  poniard  from  her  own  girdle,  as 
she  cried  — 

"  And  I  would  kill  myself,  Harry,  if  harm  should  ever  come  to 
you." 

"  Zulieme,  if  ever  you  hear  of  me  in  prison,  come  to  me  if  you 
can,  and  bring  with  you  that  pretty  toy !  But  let  them  not  see  it 
when  you  come.  Weave  it  up  in  the  masses  of  your  hair,  and 
silence  all  speech  of  eyes  or  tongue,  that  might  declare  for  wtat 
you  carry." 

Enough  of  this  scene.  Zulieme  in  half  an  hour  was  asleep,  and 
laughing  merrily  in  her  sleep,  with  those  fancies  which,  in  the 
dialogue,  she  had  been  compelled  to  stifle.  Calvert  looked  round, 
half  confounded,  half  amused. 

u  What  a  contradiction,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  An  April 
creature.  In  play  a  very  hurricane  —  in  passion  a  child  that  sobs 
itself  to  slumber  only  to  dream  of  play  !  Yet,  though  feeble  as  an 
infant,  she  is  faithful.  If  wanting  in  force  and  concentration  of 
soul,  she  is  not  wanting  in  truth ;  and  if  her  love  be  of  the  sun 
shine  only,  it  is  pure  —  a  shallow  brooklet  that  can  satisfy  no 
thirst,  but  limpid  as  the  light,  and  gliding  openly,  always  in  the 
•sunshine." 

And  he  resumed  his  writing  for  awhile ;  finished,  folded  up  his 
papers,  and  hurried  on  deck,  leaving  Zulieme  sleeping.  She  only 
woke,  roused  by  the  vessel's  motion,  to  be  told  that  they  were  al 
ready  within  the  harbor  and  pressing  up  toward  the  infant  city, 
Then  she  spiang  upon  her  feet  and  joined  her  lord  on  deck. 

4* 


82  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

SNUG    HARBOR. 

"Now  we're  in  port  and  safety,  let  me  ask, 
What  is  your  farther  purpose  ?     Spare  me  nothing. 
In  a  false  pity  that  still  mocks  at  sorrow : 
What  fate  do  you  design  for  her  who  follows 
Such  a  capricious  Fortune  ?" 

THE  moon  had  gone  down,  but  the  night  was  one  of  mar. y  stars. 
The  seas  were  rising,  with  the  winds  fresh  from  the  south.  The 
mists  of  evening  had  all  lifted  from  the  ocean.  The  land  lay  de 
fined  on  each  hand  with  perfect  distinctness.  The  little  city 
which  rose  between  the  twin  rivers  of  Kiawah  and  Etiwan,  or 
as  the  English  called  them,  the  Ashley  and  Cooper,  grew  mo 
mently  more  and  more  plain  to  the  spectator  in  the  foreground. 
On  the  right,  silent  as  stars  and  midnight,  the  narrow  islet  lay 
which  we  now  call  Sullivan.  Then,  it  was  a  well-wooded  strip, 
almost  to  the  beach ;  but,  then,  it  had  but  a  single  dwelling, 
where  a  watch  was  maintained  of  four  men,  under  a  corporal,  in 
a  petty  blockhouse,  defended  by  an  ancient  sixpounder  of  iron. 
It  stood  not  far  from  the  present  fortress.  The  forests  were  sub 
sequently  cut  down,  for  the  very  reason  that  they  served  to  con 
ceal,  from  the  eyes  of  the  city,  such  cruisers  as  the  "  Happy-go- 
Lucky"  —  a  little  less  innocent  in  fact  —  a  pirate  craft,  which,  at 
one  period,  lay  in  wait  for  ever  at  the  entrance  of  the  port,  ready 
to  dart  forth  on  the  unsuspecting  merchantman.  Equally  bare  of 
inhabitants,  and  even  more  dense  in  forest,  was  the  opposite  shore, 
now  known  as  James  island. 

Not  a  sound  of  human  life  came  from  either  side.  The  guard 
at  the  blockhouse  slept,  no  doubt.  It  was  midnight.  The  city 
lay  buried  in  deep  sleep  ;  and  so  the  progress  of  the  "  Happy-go- 
Lucky"  was  unnoticed.  She  clung  as  closely  as  possible  to  the 


SNUG   HARBOR.  83 

southern  side  of  the  harbor,  sheltered  in  some  degree  by  the 
shadows  of  the  forests.  And  thus  ran  the  cruiser  when  Zulieme 
Calvert  made  her  appearance  on  deck.  Calvert  was  already 
there  ;  had,  indeed,  navigated  the  craft  into  the  harbor ;  and  was 
still  engaged,  knowing  thoroughly  the  route,  in  steering  her  for 
Ashley  river.  Every  officer  and  seaman  was  at  his  post,  and  a 
like  silence  with  that  of  sea  and  shore,  and  midnight,  prevailed 
throughout  the  vessel. 

Zulieme  crept  to  the  side  of  her  husband  with  some  timidity 
She  had  not  quite  recovered  her  confidence  in  herself — certainly, 
was  not  yet  prepared  to  resume  her  wilfulness  after  the  seen 3  of 
Ihe  previous  evening.  Besides,  she  was  impressed  by  the  novelty 
jf  her  present  progress,  and  the  new  objects  which  employed  her 
thoughts :  thus  entering,  at  midnight,  by  stealth,  the  harbor  of  a 
foreign  state  and  people,  among  whom,  as  she  had  been  told, 
lurked  some  angry  terrors  for  her  husband.  The  very  silence 
which  prevailed  in  the  vessel,  still  pressing  on  her  course,  was 
calculated  to  awe  the  glib  spirits  of  the  thoughtless  creature  into 
reverence.  And  so,  creeping  quietly  to  the  side  of  her  husband, 
she  watched  his  progress,  as,  with  a  single  word,  "  larboard"  or 
"starboard,"  or  "port"  —  or  a  mere  waving  of  the  finger — he 
directed  the  movements  of  the  helmsman. 

"  Oh  !  what  is  that,  Harry  ?" 

She  pointed  at  the  mud  reef,  on  which,  at  this  day,  stands  Cas 
tle  Pinckney.  It  lay  immediately  upon  their  right.  Then,  it  was 
but  a  mud-reef,  having  on  it  a  single  cabin,  near  which  stood  a 
heavy  framework  of  timber,  the  uses  of  which  Zulieme  could  not 
conjecture.  It  stood  out  clearly  defined  in  the  starlight,  as  the 
eye  ranged  up  the  Etiwan,  a  Avell-known  object  to  the  eyes  of  our 
English  —  not  so  familiar  to  those  of  the  Spaniard. 

Little  did  poor  Zulieme  dream  of  the  answer  she  was  to  receive. 
Calvert  looked  as  she  bade  him,  and  quietly  putting  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  said,  in  impressive  but  low  tones,  scarcely  above  a 
whisper : — 

"  That,  Zulieme,  is  the  gallows  —  that  is  where  they  hang  the 
pirates !" 

And  such,  in  that  early  day,  was  the  only  use  of  the  reef. 

"  Ah,  Dios !    Oh,  horrid !    And  just  a*  the  entrance  of  the  city 
Oh,  what  a  horrid  people !" 


4  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

What  Zulieme  ascribed  to  the  popular  taste,  was,  in  that  day, 
supposed  to  be  the  public  policy.  They  hung  men  then,  "pour 
les  encourager  les  autres  /"  and  the  more  conspicuous  the  place, 
the  greater  the  elevation  —  the  larger  the  crowd  of  spectators  — 
the  more  horrible  the  writhings  of  the  victim  —  the  more  beneficial 
the  example  to  society. 

Whether  we  are  justified  in  hanging  a  man  as  a  warning  and 
example,  is  a  question  which  we  do  not  care  to  discuss.  There 
aie  so  many  crimes  which  are  justified  by  law  and  society,  that 
one  feels  it  a  mere  waste  of  time,  if  not  of  temper,  to  endeavor 
to  prove  their  absurdity.  We  will,  accordingly,  suffer  the  poor 
Zulieme  to  suppose  that  the  whole  practice  was  the  result  of  pure 
British  taste ;  a  taste  by  the  way,  which,  however  sanguinary,  was 
not  a  whit  more  so  than  that  of  her  own  people,  whether  under 
the  rule  of  old  Spain,  or  of  its  Creole  progressistas  who  succeeded 
the  Castilian.  "  But  the  garote"  says  our  refined  Spaniard,  " is 
surely  not  the  gallows." 

But  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  has  left  the  gallows  islet.  She  is 
rounding  Oyster  point  —  not  a  fine  stone  parapet  as  we  now  be 
hold,  girdling  a  famous  drive,  but  a  mere  strip  of  sandy  beach,  over 
which  the  waves  are  breaking  with  the  gentlest  murmur.  We  are 
now  in  Ashley  river  —  the  Kiawah  of  the  redmen,  a  fine  broad, 
poetical  stream,  an  arm  of  the  sea  rather  than  river  —  here  a  mile 
wide,  and  of  sufficient  depth  to  float  a  seventy-four.  The  green 
marshes  bound  us  on  either  hand.  To  the  left  you  see  the  open 
ing  of  Wappoo.  At  high-water,  our  low,  light-draught  cruiser 
might  pass  through  it,  and  make  her  way,  by  a  back  door,  again 
into  the  Atlantic.  But  a  couple  of  miles  above,  and  we  pass  the 
primitive  settlement  of  Sayle,  where  the  first  settlers  of  Charleston 
drove  their  original  stakes,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before. 
But  we  stop  not  here.  Our  vessel  presses  on,  several  miles  be 
yond,  where  the  stream  narrows,  where  the  marshes  grow  less 
vigorously ;  where  the  oaks  bend  down  and  kiss  the  waters ;  and 
the  marl  crops  out,  seeming,  in  the  moonlight,  like  a  marble  mar 
gin  for  some  green  islet  in  the  Adriatic.  We  glide  into  the  mouth 
of  a  creek  on  the  western  bank  of  the  stream,  which  is  thickly 
fringed  with  oaks  and  cedars.  Here  we  shall  lie  snug,  secure 
from  any  passing  scrutiny.  Our  sails  are  quietly  furled,  and  the 
masts  of  our  cruiser  are  almost  hidden  among  sheltering  pines. 


SNUG    HARBOR.  85 

By  the  time  that  all  this  was  effected,  the  day  had  dawned  upon 
river  and  forest.  Watches  were  set  upon  the  vessel,  and  the 
larger  proportion  of  the  crew  disappeared  from  sight,  seeking 
sleep  Cither  in  their  bunks,  or  in  the  shelter  of  the  woods.  Mean 
while,  a  bmall  scouting  party  had  been  sent  out,  under  Lieutenant 
Kekles,  whose  business  it  was  to  explore  the  thickets  for  a  circuit 
of  a  mile  or  two  all  about.  It  was  important  to  assure  themselves 
that  no  encampment  of  the  redmen  was  within  the  immediate  pre 
cinct.  They  might  prove  as  mischievous  as  a  gipsy  band  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  hen-roost.  Another  small  party  crossed  the 
river,  in  order  to  scour  the  woods  along  the  opposite  shores. 
These  precautions  taken,  Calvert,  who  had  not  closed  his  eyes  for 
thirty-six  hours,  threw  himself  down  in  his  berth,  leaving  Moly- 
neaux  in  charge  of  the  cruiser. 

It  was  fortunate  for  our  captain  that  custom  had  trained  him  to 
sleep  promptly,  as  soon  as  the  exigency  had  passed  which  kept 
him  wakeful.  Habit  had  made  it  easy  for  nature  thus  to  recu 
perate  after  excessive  toils.  He  slept,  even  as  the  honest  labor 
ing  man  does,  as  soon  as  he  touched  his  pillow.  But  we  do  not 
venture  to  affirm  that  he  slept  so  peacefully  —  that  he  had  no 
dreams.  For,  even  as  he  slept,  Zulieme  stole  into  the  cabin  and 
looked  steadily  into  the  face  of  the  sleeper.  He  was  murmuring 
in  his  sleep ;  and  again  did  the  ears  of  the  watcher  catch  from  his 
lips,  as  she  had  done  more  than  once  before,  the  name  of  one,  to 
hear  which  always  brought  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks.  She  had  too 
often  heard  it ;  and  that,  too,  mingled  with  language  of  such  ten 
der  interest,  such  fond  reproach  or  entreaty,  as  to  awaken  in  her 
heart,  so  far  as  that  could  be  roused  by  such  feelings,  those  of  dis 
trust,  jealousy,  and  a  vexing  suspicion,  not  only  of  the  past,  but  of 
the  future.  She  little  dreamed  that  the  occasion  was  rapidly  ripen 
ing  which  would  mature  suspicion  into  conviction,  and  convert  a 
vague  jealousy  into  a  source  of  absolute  fear,  if  not  hate  and 
loathing.  But  we  will  not  anticipate. 

Enough,  that  the  lips  of  the  sleeper  moaned  and  murmured  — 
that  his  sleep  was  troubled  —  that  he  writhed  upon  his  couch, 
under  emotions  which  were  now  those  of  tenderness  and  grief,  and 
anon,  by  quick  transition,  of  anger  and  threatening  violence.  And 
over  his  sleeping  hours  — •  not  many  —  that  erring  but  beautiful 
child  of  the  sun  brooded  with  changing  moods,  drinking  in  the 


86  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

while  a  bitter  aliment,  which  served  to  strengthen  those  feelings 
which  work  for  the  enfeebling  of  the  better  nature.  Sometimes, 
too,  you  might  note  that  what  she  heard  served  to  impel  her  to 
like  exhibitions  of  her  own  secret  nature.  Her  cheeks  flushed, 
her  eyes  flashed,  her  lips  muttered,  also,  in  broken  speech,  of  vex 
ation,  or  hate,  or  mortified  vanity,  and,  more  than  once,  you  might 
seo,  her  grip,  with  nervous  hand,  the  jewelled  toy  of  a  poniard, 
which  she  almost  always  wore  at  her  girdle.  It  was  only  when 
her  lord  subsided  into  deep  slumbers,  which  naturally  fell  upon 
him  in  consequence  of  his  long  exhaustion,  and  ceased  to  writhe 
with  torturing  thoughts,  or  to  moan  with  mortified  affections,  that 
her  muscles  grew  composed,  and  that  she  stole  away  from  the 
cabin,  not  satisfied,  but  in  silence. 

She  stooped  over  him,  down  toward  him,  as  about  to  kiss  him 
ere  she  went,  but  suddenly  drew  back,  muttering  — 

"  No,  I  won't !  He  cares  nothing  for  my  kisses.  He  shall 
seek  them  before  he  gets  them." 

And  she  ascended  to  the  deck.  There  she  joined  Molyneaux ; 
and,  after  awhile,  under  his  assurance  that  there  was  no  danger 
from  the  redmen,  strolled  out  into  a  grove  of  great  live-oaks,  at 
tended  only  by  Sylvia.  Three  hours  might  have  elapsed,  when 
she  returned  to  the  vessel,  re-entered  the  cabin,  and  found  Cal 
vert  not  only  awake,  but  busily  engaged  with  papers  at  the  table 

"  You  do  n't  ask  where  I  've  been,  Harry." 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  showed  himself  incurious.  She  was 
piqued. 

"You  might  ask.  You  might  go  with  me,  Harry,  and  see  these 
beautiful  woods;  such  great  trees,  all  green,  with  such  mighty 
arms  !  I  've  been  climbing  trees,  Harry.  You  should  have  seen 
me." 

To  all  this  there  was  only  a  vacant  shake  of  the  head.  She 
looked  at  him  with  vexation. 

"  How  long,  Harry,  are  you  to  keep  at  these  papers  ?  and  when 
will  you  go  ashore  witji  me  ?" 

"  If  you  wish  it,  now,  Zulieme." 

"Oh,  I'm  tired  now!  but  if  you'll  promise  me  after  dinner." 

"  After  dinner  be  it,  Zulieme :  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  to-night." 

"Leave  me,  and  to-night?  and  what  for,  pray?" 

"  To  go  to  Charleston." 


SNUG    HARBOR.  87 

"  But  if  you  can  go  there,  why  can't  /,  Harry?" 

"  It  is  necessary,  as  I  thought  I  had  already  told  you,  that  1 
should  go  thither,  if  only  to  see  if  I  can  do  so  with  safety." 

"  Well,  that  seems  to  me  very  foolish,  Harry." 

"  Perhaps  so,  Zulieme ;  yet  it  is  the  best  wisdom  that  I  can 
command  under  the  circumstances.  You  will  suffer  me  to  judge 
of  it,  however,  in  my  own  way,  as  it  is  my  neck,  and  not  yours, 
that  is  mostly  in  danger." 

"  Pooh !  I  do  n't  believe  your  neck 's  in  any  danger  at  all.  You 
gave  me  one  fright  about  that  matter,  Harry,  last  night,  but  sha'n't 
give  me  another.  I  know  something,  I  tell  you ;  and  I  can  see 
that  you  don't  want  me  to  go  to  Charleston,  /know.  I'm  not 
so  deaf  that  I  can't  hear ;  and  I'm  not  so  blind  that  I  can't  see." 

"What  do  you  know?"  said  he,  gravely.  "What  new  discov 
eries  have  you  made  in  the  last  three  hours  ?  What  have  you 
seen?  what  heard?  What  fool,  or  scoundrel,  has  been  filling 
your  ears,  in  this  little  time,  with  nonsense  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no  fool,  and  no  scoundrel  —  unless  you  call  yourself  by 
these  pretty  names.  But  I  know  what  I  know,  and  you  get  no 
more  out  of  me." 

This  was  said  with  a  childish  sort  of  triumph,  mingled  with  a 
look  of  suspicion  and  a  meaning  shake  of  the  head.  He  surveyed 
her,  for  a  moment,  with  a  glance  of  impatience,  which  had  in  it 
something  of  contempt ;  but  the  expression  soon  changed  to  one 
of  sadness,  as  he  said,  resuming  his  papers  — 

"  It  is  hopeless,  Zulieme,  to  keep  you  in  one  settled  impression 
of  mind.  You  will  not  rest  till  you  do  the  very  mischief  that  I 
fear.  You  are  warned  —  God  knows  how  solemnly  warned ;  but 
the  warning  passes  off,  like  a  bird's  song  in  a  drowsy  ear,  and  all 
exhortation  is  hopeless.  Before  I  depart  to-night,  I  will  give  you 
all  the  information  I  can  as  to  what  I  intend  for  you  and  myself. 
Leave  me  now,  if  you  please." 

"  Ah  ha  !  I  've  vexed  you  again  —  and  you  do  n't  want  to  know 
what  I  know.  That's  because  you're  afraid,  Harry." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  go  now." 

"  Yes,  you  may  well  drive  me  away ;  for  I  know  you  hate  me. 
There's  one  you  love  better,  Harry.  There's  that  Olive,  that 
you  talk  of  in  your  sleep." 

He  looked  up. 


88  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Sa,  you  have  again " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  you  again  blabbed  all  about  her." 

"  I  have  told  you  more  in  my  waking  moments,  Zulieme,  thar 
I  ever  uttered  in  my  sleep." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  don't  know  that." 

"  I  think  so.  I  meant  to  do  so.  But  it  matters  not  how  you 
hear,  Zulieme  It  is  impossible  that  you  should  grow  wiser  from 
any  communication." 

"  Oh  !  I  'm  a  fool,  of  course." 

He  resumed  his  labors.  She  walked  round  him ;  he  never 
looked  up.  Suddenly  she  clapped  her  hands  over  his  eyes,  and 
laughed  out,  though  with  some  effort. 

"You  sha'n't  write  any  more,  Harry." 

He  offered  no  resistance,  uttered  no  complaint;  but,  quietly 
laying  down  the  pen,  seemed  resolved  to  wait  patiently  her 
movements.  She  released  him,  and,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
said : — 

"  Now  you  could  eat  me  up,  Harry,  and  without  salt.  Are  you 
not  in  a  fury  now  ?" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  looked  into  his  eyes.  The  sad, 
resigned  air  which  he  wore  seemed  to  say  —  "This  foolish  crea 
ture  saved  my  life ;  her  father's  fortunes  have  repaired  mine ;  I 
owe  her  everything ;  I  must  bear  with  everything." 

She  seemed  to  read  this  in  his  expression. 

"Don't  look  so,  Harry,  p,s  if  you  had  to  take  it  from  me, 
whether  you  would  or  no." 

"  And  I  have,  Zulieme." 

"  Why  ?     If  you  hate  me,  Harry,  say  so." 

"  But  I  do  not  hate  you,  Zulieme." 

"  But  you  don't  love  me,  Harry,  any  more !" 

He  was  silent. 

"  Yes,  I  understand  it.    Well,  if  you  tell  me  go  from  you,  I  'II  go." 

"  Whither  would  you  go  ?" 

"  Anywhere ;  but  I  would  n't  stay  with  one  who  wants  to  be 
rid  of  me." 

"  If  you  desire  to  leave  me,  Zulieme,  you  are  free.  But  you 
must  take  the  ship.  She  is  rightly  yours.  She  was  bought  with 
your  father's  money." 

"  Oh  !  Harry,  do  n't  fling  that  money  into  my  face.     I  'd  rather 


BNUC    HARBOR.  89 

you  d  bo«nt  me  at  once.  I  don't  want  the  money,  Harry.  I  only 
want  you  to  love  rne  as  you  should." 

"  Love !  Alas,  Zulierne,  love  is  not  for  me  now.  But  if  you 
desire  my  love,  why  do  you  not  submit  to  my  wishes  ?  why  thwart 
and  strive  against  me  always?" 

-Do  I?" 

"  Even  now " 

"And  when  I'm  trying  to  be  fond  with  you,  Harry,  you  call 
it  striving  against  you.  If  you  had  any  love  for  me,  Harry,  you 
wouldn't  call  it  so.  What  am  I  to  do?  You  don't  give  me  any 
thing  to  do ;  and  I  want  to  go  with  you  wherever  you  go.  Let 
me  go  with  you  to  Charleston,  and  I  won't  vex  you  any  more. 
But  if  you  go  and  leave  me  here,  what  will  I  be  thinking  all  the 
time?  That  they've  put  you  into  the  calaboose,  and  are  going 
to  aarnte  you  —  gallows  you,  I  mean." 

"  Tour  presence  might  help  me  to  it,  Zulieme." 

"How?  I  would  fight  for  you!"  And  she  griped  her  little 
poniard  with  a  sudden  hand. 

"  Go,  go,  Zulieme  —  I  believe  what  you  tell  me  —  believe  that 
you  would  fight  for  me  with  your  feeble  strength,  and  perhaps  not 
shrink  to  die  for  me  ;  but  your  presence  would  only  embarrass  me 
in  Charleston,  and  might  lead  to  the  very  danger  that  we  fear. 
At  all  events,  I  must  first  see  how  the  land  lies.  I  have  friends 
there.  I  must  communicate  with  them.  If  they  report  favorably, 
I  will  take  you  to  the  town.  Let  that  content  you." 

We  need  not  pursue  this  dialogue.  It  was  resumed  at  evening, 
just  before  Calvert's  departure.  Zulieme  was  still  very  trouble 
some.  It  was  to  his  credit  that  he  was  still  as  patient  as  before. 
Again  she  reproached  him  with  want  of  love ;  and,  without  con 
tradicting,  he  sought  to  soothe  her.  In  a  fit  of  childish  anger  she 
beheld  him  leave  the  vessel.  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  entertained 
a  very  different  feeling ;  but  he  concealed  it  under  an  appearance 
of  great  demureness,  and  a  profound  attention  to  the  instructions 
given  by  his  superior.  Under  cover  of  the  night,  Calvert  dropped 
down  the  river  in  one  of  the  small  boats  of  the  cruiser.  He  was 
accompanied  by  four  men  as  rowers.  To  Jack  Belcher,  who 
expected  to  accompany  him,  he  said,  briefly,  but  in  significant 
tones,  which  reached  only  the  ears  of  that  faithful  fellow  : — 

"  No,  Jack,  your  place  is  here.     You  will  need  to  watch.     I 


90  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

will  be  back  in  forty  hours  at  most.  Should  I  not,  then,  remembei 
my  commands.  You  know  where  to  seek  the  boat  —  the  old 
creek,  the  shell  bluff  landing :  the  three  pines,  and  the  hedge  of 
myrtle.  In  our  next  trip.  I  shall  need  you  with  me ;  but  not 
now.  Good-by,  old  fellow." 

The  oarsman  put  out  with  a  will.  In  a  few  strokes  the  boat 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  vessel,  and  Calvert  surrendered  himself 
up  to  his  own  dark  musings,  which  did  not  need  to  receive  their 
color  from  the  night. 

"After  all,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "what  need  I  chafe ?  Were 
she  less  a  child,  less  foolish,  what  would  it  better  my  condition  ? 
Even  were  I  in  no  bonds  —  were  I  as  free  as  air  —  of  what  avail 
now,  since  she,  for  whom  I  could  wish  to  be  free,  is  in  bonds  no 
less  heavy  than  mine  ?  Look  which  way  I  will,  the  cloud  rests 
upon  the  prospect ;  and  such  a  cloud !  I  am  so  deep  in  despair 
that  I  am  above  anger." 


BEN  JACkSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER.          91 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER. 

"  This  is  an  honest  comrade ; 

One  you  may  trust  when  danger  grows  most  pressing; 
And  foes  are  thickest ;  loyal,  who  will  follow, 
With  courage,  born  of  faith  that  never  falters." 

THE  tide,  which  affects  the  Ashley  nearly  to  its  sources,  was 
falling,  and  it  required  but  moderate  effort  of  the  oarsmen  to 
send  the  boat  down  the  river.  It  reached  the  precincts  of  the 
little  town,  an  hour  after  midnight;  ran  into  one  of  the  numerous 
creeks  which  perforated  the  land  on  every  side  ;  and  we  may 
mention,  in  order  to  more  precision,  that  she  took  shelter  in  one 
of  those  little  arms  of  the  river,  which,  pursuing  a  sinuous  prog 
ress,  finally  terminated  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  spot  now  occu 
pied  by  the  statehouse,  on  Meeting  street.  At  that  early  day, 
this  region  was  skirted  by  a  marsh  along  the  water,  and  by  a  dense 
shrubbery  upon  the  higher  lands.  This  afforded  ample  covering 
for  so  small  a  craft ;  and  as  the  station  chosen  was  out  of  the  ordi 
nary  routes  of  the  citizen,  and,  by  reason  of  strips  of  marsh  and 
beds  of  ooze,  was  not  easy  of  approach,  the  chances  were  that, 
except  to  a  casual  eye,  she  might  lie  in  the  snug  basin  which  she 
occupied  for  days,  or  even  weeks,  without  discovery. 

We  must  take  for  granted,  at  all  events,  not  only  that  such  was 
the  opinion  of  our  cruiser,  but  that  it  was  one  well  justified  by  his 
experience.  He  had  found  this  harborage  a  safe  one  on  previous 
occasions,  and  the  boatmen  seemed  to  know  what  was  requisite  to 
make  it  so.  They  took  care  that  the  cover  should  be  as  complete 
as  possible.  The  tall  marshes  of  the  creek  sufficed  for  this ; 
while  the  channel  had  always  sufficient  depth  of  water  to  enable 
them  to  emerge  into  the  river  without  waiting  for  the  tide. 


92  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   FT  A  WAIL 

The  English  settlements  of  South  Carolina  were,  as  we  have 
said,  begun  only  some  twenty  years  before  ;  at  first,  at  Port  Royal, 
upon  a  noble  port,  famous  in  colonial  chronicle,  but  where  the 
very  facility  of  access,  and  the  excellence  of  the  harborage,  proved 
at  that  period,  because  of  these  very  advantages,  the  greatest  dis 
couragements  to  the  colony.  These  characteristics,  which  would 
commend  such  a  region  now  to  a  commercial  people,  were  then 
obstacles  to  the  success  of  a  commercial  settlement,  planted  in 
such  close  propinquity  to  such  powerful  maritime  enemies  as 
French  and  Spaniard.  Easily  assailed,  they  were  difficult  of  de 
fence  ;  and  some  early  experience  of  harm,  very  soon  after  his, 
arrival  at  Port  Royal,  prompted  Sayle  to  remove  his  infant  col 
ony  to  the  western  side  of  Ashley  river. 

Here  Saylc  died.  In  the  hands  of  his  successors  the  settlement 
pined  in  feeble  condition.  If,  here,  they  found  themselves  more 
safe  from  invasion  of  French  or  Spaniard,  they  were  yet  even 
more  liable  to  danger  from  the  redmcn  by  whom  they  were  every 
where  surrounded.  The  obstacles  in  the  way  of  their  maritime 
enemies  were,  also,  obstacles  to  the  approach  of  their  European 
friends  ;  and  gradually,  between  1 670  and  1 680,  the  settlers,  indi 
viduals  first,  and  groups  afterward,  passed  from  the  west  bank 
of  the  Ashley,  or  Kiawah,  to  the  west  bank  of  rhe  Cooper,  or 
Etiwan ;  until  the  government,  nearly  left  alone  on  the  west  side 
of  the  Ashley,  was  compelled  to  follow  its  people  to  the  east. 

After  this  remove,  the  colonists  received  a  considerable  addition 
to  their  numbers  from  various  sources,  and  accordingly  a  new 
impulse  to  their  energies.  There  was,  for  a  time,  some  such  rush 
toward  the  new  establishment,  as  we  note  daily  in  present  times, 
when,  under  the  arts  of  the  speculator,  the  wanderers  from  the  old 
states  crowd  to  the  competition  for  lots,  in  fancy  cities  of  the  west 
ern  territories.  People  came  in  from  North  Carolina,  and  from 
other  colonies  still  more  remote,  to  the  Ashley  river  establish 
ment;  and  the  mother-state,  taking  an  interest  in  a  settlement 
which  was  founded  under  the  patronge  of  its  chief  nobility,  con 
tributed  the  help  of  government  to  this  new  impulse.  The  prot- 
estant  French  were  sent  out,  at  the  cost  of  the  crown,  to  manufac 
ture  wines,  and  cultivate  the  mulberry,  and  rear  the  silkworm. 
Already  the  foreign  visiter  to  Carolina  had  reported  "  five  kinds 
of  grape  as  already  distinguished"  making  good  wine,  which  has 


BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER.         98 

met  with  British  approval  at  home ;  —  approved  by  the  "  best 
palates"  —  by  "mouths  of  wisest  censure,"  even  at  this  very 
early  period  ;  leading  to  the  prediction,  even  then,  that  "  Carolina 
will,  in  a  little  time,  prove  a  magazine  and  a  staple  for  wines  to 
the  whole  West  Indies"  —  a  prediction  which  we  are  now  dis 
posed  to  carry  to  still  farther  height  of  fortune,  by  substituting 
Britain  herself  for  the  West  Indies.  In  no  very  distant  time,  she 
will  probably  receive  her  very  best  wines  from  the  same  and  con 
tiguous  regions.  But  our  purpose  now  affords  little  time  for 
prophecy.  Enough  that  we  show  what  was  the  promise  in  1684. 
Not  only  does  the  vine  grow  here  in  a  native  and  peculiarly  ap 
propriate  soil,  but  the  olive,  brought  from  Fayal,  has  been  planted, 
and  is  flourishing  also,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  prophetic  settlers 
and  proprietors.  These  prophecies  and  prospects,  with  actual 
exports  of  furs  and  hides,  of  lumber,  tar,  pitch,  turpentine,  &c., 
to  England,  and  these  same  commodities,  as  well  as  pickled  beef 
and  other  marketable  productions,  to  the  West  India,  islands,  suf 
fice  to  show  that  the  track  has  been  blazed  out  sufficiently  to  be 
guile  the  discontents  and  fugitives  of  Europe,  and  that  they  have 
begun  their  march,  from  various  quarters,  to  the  new  port  of 
promise  in  the  west. 

But  the  colony,  in  spite  of  sudden  influx  of  people,  and  pro 
phetic  gleams  of  promise,  is  still  in  its  merest  infancy.  Instead 
of  twelve  hundred  people  (as  Calvert  estimates)  in  Charleston, 
then  newly  christened  —  being,  nearly  up  to  this  period,  "  Oyster- 
Point  town''  —  the  whole  colony  scarcely  numbers  twelve  hundred 
whites,  distributed  sparsely  about  the  Ashley  and  Cooper,  the 
Edistow,  Winyah,  Santee,  and  Savannah ;  and  these,  thus  scat 
tered,  are  enforted  in  block-houses,  having  mortal  dread  of  their 
red  neighbors,  who  are  too  powerful  still  not  to  inspire  fear. 
Charleston  has  its  fort  also,  mounting  two  big  guns ;  and  you  may 
note  in  its  precincts  certain  convenient  block-houses,  designed  as 
places  of  refuge.  We  have  shown,  besides,  that  the  island,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  mounts  its  block-house  and  its  big 
gun  also.  This  is  meant  simply  as  an  alarm  gun,  to  be  fired 
when  mousing  pirates,  or  Frenchmen,  or  Spaniards,  show  their 
whiskered  vi.-ages  along  the  coast. 

As  a  thing  of  course,  there  is  no  city.  Charleston  is  but  a  scat 
tered  hamlet  of  probably  eight  hundred  inhabitants,  all  told  — 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

white,  black,  and  equivocal.  The  grand  plan  of  a  city  has  just 
been  received  from  the  lord's  proprietors,  but  not  yet  put  in  exe 
cution.  The  town,  as  far  as  settled,  possesses  avenues  and  paths, 
rather  than  streets.  It  occupies  but  a  small  cantlet  of  the  present 
city,  lying  pretty  much  within  the  limits  comprehended  by  Tradd 
and  Church  streets  on  the  south  and  west,  and  Bay  and  Market 
streets  on  the  east  and  north ;  and  these  streets  have,  as  yet,  re 
ceived  no  names.  Above,  and  in  the  rear  —  that  is,  north  and 
west  —  the  land  is  perforated  by  creeks,  ponds,  and  marshes ;  an 
occasional  wigwam  marks  one  of  the  ridges  between,  and  the 
abode  of  some  one  of  the  surliest  or  poorest  of  the  settlers.  There 
are,  properly,  no  churches,  no  marketplaces,  no  places  of  amuse 
ment,  religion,  pleasure,  trade ;  all  being  individual,  though  but 
little  of  it,  as  yet,  has  been  the  fruit  of  individual  enterprise.  The 
community -has  scarcely  begun  yet  to  work  together  as  a  whole. 

Of  course,  there  are  lusts,  and  vanities,  and  human  passions ; 
many  vices,  and  perhaps  some  goodly  virtues,  scattered  broad 
cast  among  the  goodly  people  of  the  town,  even  as  at  the  present 
day.  And  of  this  stuff,  we  must  even  make  what  we  can  in  our 
present  history.  But,  also,  almost  of  course,  there  was  a  strug 
gling  upward  of  individuals  and  circles,  just  as  now  ;  striving  fee 
bly,  according  to  a  poor  idiotic  fashion,  after  wisdom,  virtue,  reli 
gion,  and  money.  And  these,  too,  will  have  their  uses  in  our 
sober  narrative.  These  are  just  the  very  elements,  mixed  and 
warring,  of  which  all  worlds  are  made ;  and,  whatever  moralists 
and  philosophers  may  think,  it  is  not  for  the  artist  to  quarrel  with 
the  very  material  out  of  which  his  proper  wares  are  to  be  fabri 
cated  ;  and  he  surely  is  not  to  challenge  that  wisdom  which  ha? 
provided  him  with  his  proper  means  of  manufacture. 

From  this  rude  sketch  of  the  first  beginnings  of  the  Palmetto 
city,  you  may  easily  conjecture  many  things;  —  that  the  dwel 
lings  generally,  for  example,  are  very  rude  ;  that  there  is  little 
real  wealth  accumulated,  whatever  the  promise  in  the  future  ,  that 
the  avenues  from  place  to  place  are  riot  always  in  travelling  con 
dition  ;  that  piles  of  lumber  obstruct  the  pathways ;  that  you 
sometimes  get  from  point  to  point  by  means  of  trees  thrown 
sprawling  over  creeks  ;  that  "  corduroyed"  causeways  help  you  over 
mudflats  ;  that,  on  dark  nights,  and  after  heavy  rains,  the  streets 
are  literally  impassable,  unless  with  the  aid  of  guides  and  lanterns ; 


BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER.         9 

that  a  large  proportion  of  the  people  are  quite  as  rude  as  street 
and  dwelling  ;  and  that  the  assortment  of  character  among  them 
is  such  as  will  afford  you  any  variety  for  selection.  Though  not 
yet  infested  with  drones,  the  town  has  a  few  specimens  of  the  idle 
gentleman ;  chevaliers  d'industrie  are  to  be  met  at  certain  well- 
known  reunions ;  there  are  two  or  more  proverbial  places  where 
you  will  meet  "  white  gizzards"  and  "  blacklegs"  —  sots  and 
gamesters  ;  already  the  precincts  of  Elliott  street,  then  the  "  Bog 
gy  Quarter,"  are  known  as  a  sort  of  Snug-Harbor  for  sailors  ;  and 
among  these  you  will  find  whiskered  bandits  who  have  wrung  the 
noses  of  the  Spanish  dons,  and  levied  heavy  assessments  upon  the 
galleons  of  Panama  and  Vera  Cruz ;  and  lost  no  credit  with  the 
British  world  by  the  exercise  of  the  peculiar  virtues  of  the  flibus- 
tier. 

Well,  it  is  to  this  very  precinct,  called  "  Boggy  Quarter,"  that 
our  hero  made  his  way,  stepping  out  from  his  boat  at  the  head  of  a 
creek  which  continued  its  progress  sinuously  up  through  portions 
of  Queen  and  Broad  streets,  till  it  spread  out  in  ooze  just  in  the 
wake  of  Courthouse  and  Mill's  House.  Supposing  St.  Michael's 
to  have  been  existing  in  that  day,  you  might  almost  have  hurled 
a  pebble  from  its  galleries  into  the  pinnace  of  our  cruiser,  where 
she  lay  concealed  in  marsh  and  myrtle.  And  could  you  now  dig 
down  some  twenty  feet,  you  might  gather  any  quantity  of  this  ooze 
from  beneath  the  foundations  of  the  Roper  hospital,  on  one  hand, 
and  the  Catholic  cathedral  on  the  other.  Whether  church  and 
hospital  are  better  fortified  on  a  muddy  than  a  sandy  foundation, 
is  a  question  in  morals  and  masonry  which  we  leave  to  the  dealers 
in  such  precious  commodities  as  souls  and  stone. 

Well,  stepping  out  of  his  boat  on  a  cypress  trunk  that  spanned 
a  hundred  feet  of  bog,  our  captain  of  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky" 
made  his  way  into  the  town,  pursuing  an  eastward ly  course,  a 
point  or  two  to  the  south,  which  took  him,  after  no  long  period,  to 
that  Boggy  Quarter,  Snug-Harbor,  Pirate-Hold,  which,  in  more 
civilized  times,  and  within  the  recollection  of  decent  people  had 
scarcely  a  higher  reputation,  under  the  more  innocent  appellation 
of  Elliott  street.  There  may  have  been  twenty  dwellings  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes  in  and  about  this  precinct,  chiefly  in  that  part  of  it 
where  Elliott  enters  Church  street.  The  latter  was  the  more 
choice  and  courtly  region.  Here  dwelt  the  governor ;  here,  Land- 


96  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

graves  Morton  and  Marshall,  Middleton,  and  other  prominent 
men  of  the  colony,  maintained  a  sort  of  state  in  their  mansions, 
and  were  comfortably  lodged  according  to  the  standards  of  the 
place.  It  was  the  court  end  of  the  town,  and  almost  its  west  end 
also.  A  block-house  stood  very  near  the  spot  occupied  by  St. 
Philip's,  and  closed  up  the  street  in  that  northern  quarter.  An 
other  might  be  seen  at  the  opposite  or  southern  extremity,  which 
fell  a  long  ways  short  of  its  present  handsome  terminus  in  "  the 
Battery."  And  —  but  we  must  not  suffer  details  of  this  sort  fur 
ther  to  interfere  with  the  progress  of  Captain  Calvert.  We  may 
have  to  conduct  him  and  the  reader  to  others  before  we  have 
done,  but  sufficient  for  the  scene  should  be  the  action  thereof,  and 
the  approach  to  the  event  will  necessarily  imply  such  description 
of  the  locality  as  will  serve  for  its  proper  comprehension.  It 
contents  us  now  to  accompany  Captain  Calvert  to  one  of  the  hab 
itations  of  Boggy  Quarter,  Elliott  street,  a  nest  of  rookeries  ;  two 
or  three  frame  houses  huddled  together  around  a  square  fabric  of 
logs,  which  in  process  of  time  ceased  altogether  to  appear  upon 
the  street,  and  formed  a  sort  of  donjon,  or  keep,  to  an  otherwise 
innocent-looking  habitation,  of  very  rude  and  ungainly  structure. 
It  lay  now  in  perfect  silence  and  utter  darkness ;  doors  shut,  win 
dows  fast ;  everything  secure  without,  as  becomes  the  caution  of  a 
householder  who  well  knows  that  night-hawks  range  about  new 
settlements  as  impudently  as  about  those  which  have  been  made 
venerable  by  the  knaveries  of  a  thousand  years. 

Calvert,  armed  with  an  oyster-shell,  made  himself  heard  against 
an  upper  window. 

A  head,  covered  with  a  red  flannel  nightcap,  was  thrust  forth. 

"  Happy"  was  the  single  word  spoken  by  the  cruiser. 

"  Go-Lucky"  was  the  countersign,  promptly  answered,  and  the 
head  was  instantly  withdrawn.  In  a  few  moments  after  the  door 
was  opened,  no  word  was  spoken,  the  captain  entered,  and  the 
house  was  made  fast  as  before. 

We  must  follow  the  two  into  the  log-house,  which  was  original 
ly  built  as  a  block-house,  commanding  a  creek,  and  was,  by  the 
way,  the  very  first  dwelling  raised  in  the  Palmetto  city,  by  that 
race  whose  generations  have  reared  it  to  its  present  goodly 
dimensions. 

Following  our  guide  and  companion,  we  find  cursives  ii»  a  rude 


BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER.         97 

chamber  twenty  feet  square.  A  lantern  burns  dimly  uj  Dn  a  pine 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  There  are  shelves  around  the 
apartment,  on  which  you  see  kegs,  boxes,  jugs  ;  these  may  contain 
pipes,  tobacco,  bacon,  sugar,  and  Jamaica  rum.  We  need  not  in 
quire  more  particularly.  You  see  weapons,  too,  such  as  were 
familiar  to  the  brawny  muscles  of  that  day.  There  are  a  few  cut 
lasses  which  hang  against  the  walls ;  a  blunderbuss  rests  upon 
yonder  shelf;  you  see  a  pair  of  huge  pistol-butts  protruding  from 
a  corner  in  the  same  quarter,  and  a  couple  of  long  fowling-pieces 
lean  up  below  them.  Kvidently,  a  clever  squad  of  flibustiers 
might  equip  themselves  for  sudden  action  from  this  rude  armory 
in  Boggy  Quarter. 

The  host  who  has  welcomed  our  captain,  is  clearly  one  who 
has  been  upon  the  high  seas  in  some  professional  capacity.  He 
yaws  about  with  the  natural  motion  of  a  sea-dog.  He  wears  the 
hard,  sun-browned  cheeks  of  Jack  Tar ;  you  see  that  his  hair  is 
twisted  all  over  into  "  pigtails,"  such  as  constituted,  at  an  early 
day,  a  sort  of  proper  style  of  marine  headdress.  A  coarse  flannel 
shirt,  red  as  his  nightcap,  makes  his  only  upper  garment,  which  a 
riband  secures  at  the  throat.  The  bosom  is  open,  the  muscular 
breast  seeming  to  have  burst  all  such  small  obstacles  as  a  score  of 
buttons  might  present ;  and  his  arms  are  bare,  the  sleeves  rolled 
up,  showing  the  maritime  tokens,  ships,  anchors,  and  other  caba 
listic  insignia,  deeply  ingrained  with  gunpowder,  from  elbow  down 
to  wrist.  Jack  is  clearly  one  who,  if  he  has  left  the  profession,  is 
not  ashamed  of  it.  He  is  probably  on  furlough  only. 

He  receives  the  captain  with  some  warmth,  but  quite  as  much 
reverence,  as  he  draws  out  a  chair  of  wicker-work  from  the  cor 
ner,  brushes  it  carefully  with  some  garment  hastily  snatched  up, 
and  places  it  before  the  captain. 

"  Glad  to  see  your  honor.  Been  looking  for  you  now  three 
weeks.  Glad  you  didn't  come  before,  though;  you  might  have 
missed  stays  getting  out  or  in  ;  we've  had  a  smart  showing  of 
king's  ships  on  the  station.  But  Belcher  told  your  honor  all !" 

"Yes;  but  king's  cruisers  haven't  troubled  us  much,  Ben,  up 
to  this  time.  What  makes  you  all  so  scary  about  them  now  ?" 

"Why,  for  that  matter,  sir,  so  long  as  you  Ye  in  the  '  Happy-go- 
Lucky,'  I  don't  see  as  how  kings'  ships  could  do  you  hurt  at  any 
time.  She's  got  the  heels  of  the  best  of  them  ;  and  I  know  you 


98  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

can  fling  a  shot  just  as  close  as  the  best  gunner  that  ever  sighted 
a  Long  Tom.  But  it's  here,  when  you  git  into  port,  that  the  break 
ers  git  worst.  That 's  the  say  now.  There 's  new  orders  come 
out  from  council  that  don't  suffer  any  more  fair  trading." 

"  Well,  Ben,  we've  been  used  to  orders  from  council  for  a  long 
time  already :  and  these  gave  us  no  great  concern,  so  long  as  we 
had  staunch  British  hearts,  here  and  about,  to  give  cheer  at  the 
smashing  of  a  Spaniard's  deadlights." 

"  That's  true,  your  honor ;  but  they  say,  now,  there's  a  change 
in  the  great  folks  here.  There 's  to  be  better  pay  to  keep  'em 
vartuous." 

"  Not  such  good  pay  as  ours,  I  fancy." 

"Well,  I  should  think  not,  your  honor;  but  there's  no  telling, 
when  men  begin  to  git  vartuous,  what  pay  will  satisfy  them ;  and 
when  they're  a-gitting  religious,  as  well  as  vartuous,  they're  mon 
strous  strong  in  their  ixpectations." 

"  But  are  there  any  among  our  friends  who  are  thus  raising 
their  prices  to  the  virtuous  and  religious  standard  ?" 

"•  Why,  yes,  sir;  it's  a  sort  of  fight  now  twixt  the  puritans  and 
the  cavaliers,  I'm  a  thinking,  which  shall  git  the  first  places  in 
heaven.  The  cavaliers  didn't  always  make  a  business  of  it;  didn't 
set  up  for  it;  wa'n't  no  ways  ambitious;  but  now  that  they  see 
that  the  puritans  are  a-gitting  on  so  well,  they  sort  o'  begrudges 
them  the  advantage ;  and  tho'  they  drinks  the  Jamaica  out  of  a 
silver  mug,  jist  as  they  always  did  afore,  yet  they  've  learned  to 
look  over  the  cup,  into  heaven,  as  I  may  say,  jist  to*  see,  at  least,  if 
they  can't  make  a  reckoning  for  the  promised  land.  The  puritans, 
they  sticks  to  the  pewter  mug,  and  they  says  just  as  long  a  prayer 
over  their  sinnings  as  they  ever  did;  but  there's  signs  enough  in  the 
land  that  they  only  wants  a  chance  to  snatch  the  silver  mug  from 
the  hands  of  the  cavaliers,  and  go  to  hell,  by  the  way  of  heaven, 
if  it's  only  to  get  a  look  at  the  country  passing.  Landgrave  Mor 
ton's  a  getting  religious,  and  Landgrave  Bill  Owen,  he's  working 
hard  for  it ;  and  Colonel  Rafe  Marshall,  and  a  few  more  of  our 
big  men  in  authority;  but  whether  it's  a  working  for  hell  or 
heaven,  there's  no  telling,  in  the  short  reckoning  we're  allowed 
here.  Your  man  here,  Joe  Sylvester,  that's  been  such  a  fast  trader, 
nnd  if  you  believes  him,  sich  a  friend  of  yourn,  he's  a  sort  of  pil 
lar  of  fire ;  he  calls  himself  so  —  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  and  ot 


BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGU Y  QUARTER.          99 

cloud  by  day ;  and  it 's  amazing  to  see  how  he  fattens  on  his  var- 
tues  and  religion.  He  weighs,  I  'm  thinking,  a  full  forty  pounds 
more  than  he  did  when  you  was  here  afore,  and  he's  thriving 
worse  than  ever  in  worldly  goods." 

**  Does  he  preach  ?"  This  was  spoken  with  a  sort  of  holy 
horror. 

**  He  hardly  does  nothing  else.  He's  at  the  conventicles,  who 
but  he,  as  proud  as  the  proudest  for  humility.  But  the  preaching 
brings  in  the  profit." 

"  Then  I  must  beware  of  him." 

"  Better,"  said  the  other,  dryly ;  "  for  though  he 's  willing,  no 
doubt,  to  carry  on  the  bad  business,  jist  as  before,  yet  he  '11  be 
always  asking  himself  what  speculation  he  can  make  out  of  God, 
jist  by  giving  up  all  the  secrets  of  the  devil.  You'll  jist  have  to 
calculate  for  him  beforehand,  as  to  the  time  when  he  can  drive  a 
trade  for  your  neck  in  the  halter,  with  the  saints  and  Pharisees." 

"  Why,  Ben,  you  speak  in  such  goodly  phrase,  that  I  am  half 
inclined  to  suspect  you  of  a  part  in  the  service  of  the  puritans." 

"And  you've  got  reason,  your  honor.  Soon  as  I  found  out 
that  Joe  Sylvester  had  got  religion  and  was  turned  preacher,  I 
regilarly  attended  sarvice,  p'rticlarly  if  I  knowed  he  was  gwine  to 
preach ;  for  when  a  man 's  a  rogue,  or  I  thinks  him  so,  to  find  out 
I  jist  wants  to  see  the  white  of  his  eye,  and  to  hear  how  he  brings 
out  his  sentiments.  Ef  he's  slow,  I  knows  he's  calkilating  and  a 
rogue ;  for  a  new  convart,  in  his  old  age,  is  bound  to  be  fast,  if 
he's  honest ;  and  he  won't  think  of  rolling  up  his  eyes  when,  all 
the  time,  he 's  thinking  of  s'arching  you  to  the  very  soul,  through 
your  daylights." 

"  Why,  Ben,  you  're  a  philosopher." 

"  No,  your  honor,  only  a  sailor,  and  a  great  rogue  of  a  sinner ; 
but  I  can 't  h'ist  false  colors,  your  honor  —  except  in  the  lawful 
sarvice  of  religion  and  aginst  the  Spaniards;  and  that's  a  part  of 
good  seamanship  in  privateer  life.  When  I'm  gwine  to  turn 
against  your  honor,  I'll  show  you  a  flag,  and  give  you  fair  warn 
ing  to  stand  off." 

"  What  you  tell  me  of  Sylvester  certainly  needs  some  watch 
fulness  ;  but  you  say  nothing  of  the  governor.  Has  he  beec 
imbibing  religion  also  ?  Is  he  really  disposed  to  show  himself 
zealous  under  these  new  orders  of  council  ?" 


100  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  your  honor,  only  as  he 's  watched  by  them 
that's  got  it  in  charge  to  see  after  him." 

"  Ah  !  is  he  suspected  ?" 

"I'm  a  thinking  that's  his  difficulty,  sir.  There's  a  new  coun 
cil,  there's  new  men,  and  you  know  what  the  song  says  — 

"  '  Git  a  new  master,  be  a  new  man.' 

There's  new  masters  come  out  for  the  governor  as  well  as  smaller 
prople.  As  I  tell  ye,  there's  Landgrave  Morton,  who's  got  ac 
tive  agin  of  late,  and  talks  strong  agin  piracy,  as  he  calls  it ; 
though,  when  you  will  make  a  British  sailor,  or  British  folk  gen 
erally,  believe  that  there  is  any  law  agin  licking  the  Spaniards 
when  you  kin,  and  emptying  their  galleons,  I  shall  think  the  day 
of  judgment  is  mighty  close  upon  our  quarters.  It's  all  lee-shore 
and  no  water.  Then  there 's  Mr.  Arthur  Middleton,  he  sings  to 
the  same  tune  with  Morton;  and  \vorse  than  all,  there's  a  new 
cassique  one  Major  Edward  Berkeley " 

"Ah!     Well?" 

"He's  got  something  of  a  special  commission,  they  say,  fol 
overhauling  all  cargoes,  whether  silks  or  silver  of  the  Spaniards; 
or  Injin  slaves  for  the  West  Indies.  He's  to  wind  up  both  them 
trades  if  he  kin  do  it,  and  they  say  he  carries  a  pretty  high  hand 
with  the  governor.  It's  the  watch  they  keeps  on  him,  these 
three,  that's  making  him  squeamish;  otherwise,  I  reckon,  he'd 
show  jist  as  blind  an  eye,  now,  to  the  running  of  a  cargo  as  we 
knows  he  did  last  September,  when  you  brought  in  that  fine  cargo 
of  the  Santa  Maria  —  and  a  better  chance  of  pretty  things  never 
come  to  this  market,  and  a  pretty  trade  we  drove  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  must  see  the  governor  and  Sylvester  both,  Ben." 

"  Ef  must  is  the  word,  captain,  then  you'll  keep  close  hauled  on 
me  wind,  ready  for  any  weather.  Sylvester's  a  rogue  —  about 
:vic  worst,  since  he's  h'isted  the  flag  of  religion.  He'll  do  the 
lung  secret,  but  you'll  jist  be  sure  never  to  let  him  guess  when 
all  the  cargo's  out.  Keep  him  to  the  guess  that  there's  a  good 
deal  more  to  come.  In  the  matter  of  Governor  Quany,  you'll 
have  to  see  him  to  himself.  You  can't  walk  the  town  with  him 
ROM  ,  arm-in-arm,  as  you  did  a  year  ago.  But  I  kin  git  you  into 
his  quarters,  and  nobody  the  wiser;  and  if  we  can  blink  the  moon 
we  kin  run  the  cargo,  and  nobody  to  take  offence.  As  for  th« 


BEN    BA('i>TAY    -AT    BO<JGY    QUARTER.  101 

officers,  the;  might  as  well  be  owls  for  what  they  see,  and  crows 
for  all  the  fighting  they'll  do.  But  you  must  fight  shy  of  the 
landgraves  and  cassiques  —  Morton  and  Berkeley,  and  Middle- 
ton  ;  they  're  a  most  too  scrup'lous  for  safety,  'less  we  manage 
with  blankets." 

"  That  we  can  do.     The  ship 's  up  the  river." 

"  There's  the  danger,  ef  a  kins's  ship  should  be  coming  round. 
Don't  for  the  whole  cargo  let  Joe  Sylvester  know  where  me 
beauty  lies." 

''  No  !  surely  not ;  or  the  governor  either.' 

"  Should  they  find  out,  they  'd  have  a  king's  cruiser  upon  you 
before  you  could  say  'Jack  Robinson;'  and  where  would  you  be, 
should  she  run  up  the  river  after  you  ?" 

"  They'd  find  us  prepared,  Ben.  They  can  hardly  find  a  king's 
phip  strong  enough,  single-handed,  to  cripple  the  *  Happy-go- 
Lucky ;'  and  I  ihall  take  care  they  do  not  catch  us  nappiusr. 
How  many  men  can  you  get  together  at  the  signal  ?" 

"  Enough  for  camels."   (Burden-bearers.) 

**  The  boat  will  be  at  Shell  bluff  when  they  come.  Ycu  snail 
Lave  the  signals  beforehand.  If  we  have  reason  to  change  iiie 
ground,  you  shall  know.  I  will  see  you  again  by  daylight,  when 
we  must  get  into  the  governor's  quarters  without  stirring  his  sen 
tries,  I  must  go  now  and  see  Sylvester." 

"  Why  should  he  have  a  hand  in  the  job  at  all  ?" 

u  Only  to  shut  his  mouth.  He  would  be  sure  to  get  from  soui*1 
of  your  people  that  you  had  camels  at  work " 

"  Maybe  so,  but " 

"  I  shall  assign  him  the  Hobcaw  landing,  bringing  the  boat 
round.  He  shall  be  taught  to  believe  that  the  vessel  lies  below, 
behind  the  island." 

"  He'll  put  a  watch  on  you." 

"  First,  you  shall  put  a  watch  on  him,  and  so  muzzle  his  watcii 
if  you  have  to  ship  him.  But  we  must  venture  something." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  so." 

"  This  Major  Berkeley,  Ben  —  this  new-comer,  cassique  or 
what  d'ye  call  him  —  have  you  seen  him?  What  sort  of  person 
is  he?" 

"  Well,  sir,  yes ;  and  he's  a  much  of  a  man,  I  tell  you,  judging 
by  his  looks.  He's  about  your  height  and  heft;  a  leetle  fuller 


102  THE    CAiSlQUE    UK    KJAWAH. 

round  about  the  girdle ;  a  leetle  fuller  in  the  face,  I  think,  and  he 
wears  no  sign  of  a  brush.  I  should  think  him  about  thirty-five 
or  thereabouts.  He's  got  grayish  eyes,  and  a  good  roof  to  his 
head,  and  he  carries  himself  rather  grand  and  stiff;  and  you  kin 
see  he  means  something,  and  is  somebody.  I  don't  reckon  him  a 
person  to  be  free  and  familiar,  but  you  see  he  Js  quite  a  gentleman 
born.  And  so  they  say  he  is  ;  some  of  the  talk  makes  him  out  to 
be  a  nevy  or  cousin  to  Sir  John  Barkeley,  one  of  the  lords  propri 
etors,  you  know." 

Calvert  heard  this  description  in  silence.  When  it  was  finished 
he  rose  and  walked  the  apartment  for  a  few  minutes  without 
speaking.  Ben  Backstay  rose  at  the  same  time,  drew  forth  a  jug, 
placed  pitcher  and  tumbler  upon  the  table,  and  got  out  a  silver 
bowl  heaped  with  loaf  sugar. 

"  Something  after  the  talk,  your  honor?" 

Without  answering,  Calvert  drew  nigh  the  table,  poured  out  a 
moderate  stoup  of  the  Jamaica,  and,  dashing  it  with  water,  drank 
it  off,  resuming  his  silent  progress  around  the  apartment.  Ben 
Backstay  just  as  silently  followed  his  example  in  the  matter  of  the 
Jamaica.  Then,  after  a  brief  pause,  seemingly  accorded  to  his 
superior's  humor,  Ben  Backstay  ventured  to  intrude  upon  it : — 

"  I  've  been  thinking,  your  honor,  that,  considering  the  squeam- 
ishness  of  the  governor,  and  the  strict  watch  of  the  council,  and 
the  vartnous  inclinations  of  Sylvester,  that  'twould  be  better  if  we 
didn't  use  my  camels  or  hisn  at  all  in  running  the  cargo." 

"  How  can  we  do  it  otherwise  ?" 

"  Let  the  crew  shoulder  the  cargo,  and  nobody  else,  and  thea 
one  man  kin  receive  it.  Governor  and  council,  and  camels,  and 
the  vartuous  Joe,  needn't  know  nothing  about  it,  or  even  guess 
that  sich  a  witch  as  the  '  Happy-go-Lucky'  had  ever  been  within 
soundings  for  a  month  of  Sundays.  You  've  got  a  full  comple- 
men  of  men  for  fighting,  as  well  as  working  the  vessel ;  and  when 
they've  neither  fighting  nor  working,  why  shouldn't  they  take  a 
take  a  hand  at  camelling  ?" 

i;  I  've  thought  of  it,  Ben,  but  dare  not  trust  'em.  We've  got 
some  doubtful  fellows  aboardship  this  cruise,  and  I  've  reason  to 
suspect  mischief  a-brewing  even  now,  on  the  part  of  those  whom, 
for  the  present,  I  am  yet  compelled  to  trust.  If  I  bring  the  doubt 
ful  fellows  down  to  this  work,  they  would  be  surrounded  here  by 


BEN  BACKSTAY  AT  BOGGY  QUARTER.         103 

temptations  to  betray  me.  If  I  brought  the  trustworthy,  I  should 
leave  the  ship  to  the  mercy  of  the  rest,  who  would  be  then  en 
couraged  to  attempts  which  they  will  hardly  venture  on  as  yet. 
The  case  is  one  of  embarrassments  all  round,  and  I  see  no  process 
but  the  one  that  we  have  agreed  upon.  Wind  serving,  I  may 
may  make  midnight  runs,  down  and  up,  of  the  vessel  herself,  and 
so  empty  cargo  the  sooner.  But,  if  there  should  seem  to  be  any 
skylarking  along  our  lines  of  watch,  you  have  only  to  make  the 
old  signal,  and  we  can  cache  in  the  woods,  find  a  storehouse  in  the 
thickets  of  Accabee,  as  we  did  once  before ;  you  remember  ?" 

"  You  know,  captain,  it's  a'most  time  for  the  Injins  to  be  coming 
down  to  the  salts.  Parties  were  in  town  yesterday,  and  there 's  a 
report  that  they're  gwine  to  be  troublesome.  Them  Westos,  and 
Stonos,  and  Savannas,  that  gin  us  such  trouble  in  Governor  West's 
time,  they're  a-waking  up  agin.  You  may  look  to  find  painted 
iaces  about  Accabee  pretty  soon  now,  any  how,  as  the  fishing  sea 
son  is  begun." 

"  We  must  risk  the  redmen,  keeping  our  watch  as  close  as  pos 
sible.  If  we  meet  with  any,  we  must  only  bribe  and  send  'em  off." 

"  Jamaica  '11  do  it,  sir.  Ef  you  kin  only  show  'em  a  pipe  of 
that  good  stuff  somewhere  along  the  Santee,  they'll  be  off  at  the 
long  trot  before  daylight.  But,  if  you  mean  to  see  Joe  Sylvester 
and  the  governor  both  to-night,  captain,  it's  time  to  be  moving." 

"  No  !"  said  the  other,  abruptly.  "  I  have  thought  better  of  it. 
I  will  see  neither  of  them  to-night.  We  will  run  a  boat-load,  at 
least,  before  they  shall  know  of  my  presence.  And,  whether  I 
suffer  Sylvester  to  know  at  all,  will  depend  upon  the  conclusion  I 
come  to  after  I  sleep  on  it.  We  have  some  very  valuable  articles 
in  the  cargo,  upon  which  there  need  be  no  black  mail  paid  to  any 
body  but  yourself,  Ben.  These  I  will  have  at  the  long  cypress  at 
midnight,  to-morrow.  For  these  I  can  bring  a  sufficient  force  of 
my  own  sea-dogs  —  the  most  trusty  —  for  camelling." 

"  Best  way  that,  sir." 

"  We  '11  see  how  it  works.  After  that  I  can  see  the  governor 
or  Sylvester  —  one,  both,  or  neither,  as  I  please." 

And  so  they  parted. 


104  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER    X. 
BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  THE  PROSPECT. 

"  We  must  ravel  up 

These  tangled  threads,  nor  stop  to  sort  them  now; 
But  huddle  them  together  in  our  wallets 
For  future  uses." 

LET  us  now,  dear  reader,  suppose  a  few  things  rapidly,  ,n  order 
that  we  may  spare  each  other  some  unnecessary  detail.  You  will 
please  believe  that  some  three  days  and  nights  have  elapsed  since 
our  last  chapter.  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  these  have  been 
left  unemployed  by  the  several  parties  to  our  narrative.  You 
will  take  for  granted,  for  example,  that  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky" 
still  keeps  close  in  her  snug  harbor,  some  ten  miles  up  the  Ash 
ley.  You  will  conceive,  for  yourselves,  that  Lieutenant  Moly- 
neaux  has  been  vigilant  in  his  watch,  assisted  by  his  junior  officer ; 
that  he  has  his  scouts  busy  about  in  the  woods,  keeping  a  sharp 
look-out  for  intruders,  red  or  white ;  that  there  is  no  reproach  of 
lachesse  at  his  doors.  Whatever  his  demerits  as  a  peacock,  he 
knows  what  are  his  duties,  and  performs  them,  perhaps  quite  as 
much  in  compliance  with  habit  as  will. 

And  we  must  suppose  this  also  of  Eckles,  and  the  rest.  They 
work,  too,  amazingly  well,  in  the  hours  in  which  special  tasks  are 
assigned  them,  whether  in  their  scouting  duties,  or  in  those  more 
laborious  of  breaking  bulk  and  transhipping  cargo.  Several 
boats,  well  stuffed  with  contraband  commodities,  have  dropped 
down  the  river,  and  have  been  disposed  of  by  Calvert,  through 
familiar  channels.  These  things  will  seem  to  you  matters  of 
course. 

You  are  also  to  take  for  granted,  that  the  life  or  the  "  Happy- 
go-Luckies"  up  the  river,  in  their  then  almost  virgin  solitude,  has 
not  been  one  of  unmitigated  drudgery.  Our  captain  of  the  cruiser 


BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  THE  PROSPECT.  105 

is  an  indulgent  master.  He  knows  the  nature  and  the  needs  of 
man,  especially  of  sailors ;  and  his  maxim,  in  regard  to  their  man 
agement,  follows  scrupulously  the  rule  laid  down  in  the  ancient 
doggrel : — 

"  All  work,  and  no  joy, 
Makes  Jack  a  dull  boy; 
But  all  joy,  and  no  toil, 
Is  sure  the  best  of  Jacks  to  spoil ;" — 

and  so  he  pleasantly  varies  the  exercise  from  work  to  play ;  from 
tasks,  regularly  exacted,  to  amusements  in  which  every  freedom, 
even  to  a  decree  of  license,  is  allowed,  consistently  with  the  prose 
cution  of  duty,  and  the  safety  of  the  ship. 

So  you  will  please  understand  that  our  Jack  Tars  have  had  and 
are  having  their  fun  ;  frequent  enough,  in  the  shade  of  those  great 
old  oaks  up  Ashley  river.  They  have  planted  quite  a  gymnasium 
in  one  of  those  mighty  amphitheatres  of  forest,  which  no  grandeur 
of  art  could  ever  emulate.  You  see  that  swings  of  grapevine  are 
even  now  bearing  the  forms  of  the  fair  Zulieme  and  the  brown 
Sylvia  ;  that  our  lieutenants  are  doing  the  agreeable,  alternately, 
in  setting  the  swing  in  motion  which  bears  the  fairy-like  figure  of 
the  former  ;  that  the  sailors  amuse  themselves  in  like  fashion  at 
a  moderate  distance,  or  in  other  ways  equally  rustic.  Some  of 
them  play  the  tomahawk  exercise  at  twenty  feet  against  the  trees, 
others  hurl  the  bar  or  pitch  the  quoit ;  and  you  will  see  not  a  few 
of  them  using  Spanish  pieces  of  eight,  vulgarly  called  "  milled  dol 
lars,"  in  a  like  manner,  the  innocent  coin  being  the  forfeit  to  the 
most  skilful  or  most  lucky  of  the  players.  And  there  are  sturdy 
fellows  stripped  to  the  buff  and  squaring  off,  after  the  excellent 
fashion  of  John  Bull,  in  quarter-staff  or  pugilism.  Crowns  are 
cracked  for  a  consideration,  and  "  facers"  are  put  in  with  such 
emphasis  as  to  spoil  mazzards,  purely  for  fun.  Then  there  are 
practical  jokes  incessantly  plied,  such  as  tickle  the  fancies  of  Jack 
Tar,  whether  on  sea  or  shore.  Lubbers  (and  there  are  marines 
on  board  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky")  are  tied  in  the  rigging  —  that 
is,  taken  with  a  noose  —  while  the  parties  straddle  upon  great 
branches,  in  search  of  birds'-nests,  for  curious  specimens  of  which 
they  have  been  persuaded  to  go  aloft. 

Our  ambitious  lieutenant  reiines  something  upon  these  antics  of 
Jack  Tar.  He  call*  up  the  violin  of  Phipps:  he  excites  the  pas- 

5* 


106  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

sion  of  the  fair  Zulieme  for  her  national  dances ;  he  shares  with  her 
as  before,  in  the  fandango;  and  he  makes  her  temporarily  forget 
ful  that  her  levity  has  brought  the  cloud  upon  her  husband's  vis 
age,  and  over  her  own  fortunes.  She  can  not  free  herself  of  lev 
ity.  With  a  nature  so  light  as  hers,  a  mind  so  utterly  incapable 
of  care  and  thought,  forgetfulness  is  as  inevitable  as  the  feel 
ing  of  existence  ;  and  the  natural  demands  of  her  gay  summer  life 
require  that  she  should  play,  and  sing,  and  flit  about,  and  fly,  just 
so  soon  as  the  shower  is  over,  and  the  sun  comes  out.  It  is  the  mis 
take  of  our  lieutenant  to  suppose  that  she  can  be  serious  enough, 
a  sufficiently  long  time,  for  the  purposes  of  passion.  With  her,  it 
is  quite  enough  that  she  feels  lonesome,  to  begin  play.  Tell  her 
that  the  world  is  about  to  tumble  to  pieces,  and  she  cries  out  wit 
a  start  of  terror ;  but  if  the  world  lingers  in  the  process  of  dissolu 
tion,  and  she  begins  to  feel  dully  from  the  "hope  deferred,"  she 
takes  refuge  in  the  free  use  of  legs  and  arms,  and,  in  the  convul 
sions  of  her  own  merriment,  straightway  forgets  all  those  w7hich 
are  to  make  "  chaos  come  again." 

And  while  she  sings  and  dances,  ,and  wanders  off  into  the 
woods,  seeking  new  scenes  for  sport,  gathering  flowers  as  thought 
lessly  as  Dis,  ere  she  was  herself  gathered  by  the  grim  lord  of 
Erebus  and  Night  —  with  Molyneaux  ever  watchful  of  her  wrays, 
and  meditating,  perhaps,  as  wickedly  as  Pluto — we  are  to  sup 
pose  that  the  eyes  of  Jack  Belcher,  solicitous  for  his  master,  main 
tain  as  keen  a  watch  over  all  the  parties. 

Nor  these  two  merely.  There  are  others  on  board  the  "  Hap 
py-go- Lucky"  who  do  not  wholly  surrender  themselves  to  sport  and 
play;  who  have  mousing  moods,  and  brood,  like  political  spiders, 
in  dark  corners  to  themselves,  spreading  their  subtle  webs  on 
every  hand,  the  better  to  entrap  the  unwary.  These,  too,  seek 
close  harbors  in  the  thickets,  "  michin  malico,"  even  as  Antonio 
and  Sebastian  work  together  in  conspiracy,  wrhile  their  monarch 
sleeps  on  the  Enchanted  island.  And  upon  these,  too,  the  faith 
ful  Jack  Belcher  has  set  the  keen  eyes  of  suspicion,  at  least,  if  no 
discovery ;  and  he  waits  only  to  be  sure,  before  he  undertakes  to 
help  their  councils.  How  far  these  discontents  are  ^encouraged 
by  Molyneaux,  is  yet  to  be  seen.  But  it  is  known  that  they  are 
his  favorites,  and  not  in  much  favor  with  their  captain.  For  all 
of  which  there  are  probably  good  reasons.  Enough,  in  this  place, 


BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  THE  PROSPECT.  107 

that  Calvert  is  very  far  from  blind,  though  it  is  a  part  of  his  pol 
icy  not  to  see  a  moment  too  soon.  He  is  quite  satisfied,  for  the 
present,  that  he  has  a  faithful  hound  upon  their  tracks,  whom  he 
holds  to  be  quite  able  to  scent  them  out  in  all  their  sinuosities  of 
progress. 

We  have  shown  you  that  all  our  parties  have  been  busied,  each 
n  his  department,  during  the  three  days  which  have  elapsed  since 
our  last  chapter.  You  are  to  understand  that,  in  this  space  of 
time,  no  Jess  than  four  boat-loads  of  very  miscellaneous  commodi 
ties  have  been  "  run"  into  the  virtuous  bosom  of  the  young  city. 
You  will  please  believe  that  the  commodities  so  ''run"  are  of  very 
precious  texture  and  quality;  that  they  comprise  bales  of  silk, 
and  other  stuffs  precious  to  luxury,  fashion,  and  the  fair  sex ;  that 
there  are  besides  certain  bales  of  cochineal,  certain  casks  of  indigo, 
larger  quantities  of  naval  stores,  clothing,  provisions,  goods  and 
wares,  which  we  need  not  enumerate  ;  then,  the  more  bulky  arti 
cles  are  yet  to  be  landed  —  those  only  "  run"  which  are  most  por 
table  and  most  precious.  Of  some  ten  thousand  pieces  of  eight 
(dollars),  the  fruits  of  the  same  prosperous  voyage,  and  the  pro 
ceeds  of  a  gallant  passage  at  arms,  at  close  quarters,  with  a  Span 
ish  galleon  of  very  superior  force,  bound  from  Porto  Bello  to 
Havana,  we  gather  no  official  report  as  yet.  We  may  hear  some 
thing  of  them  hereafter ;  but  we  doubt  if  captain  or  crew  will  feel  it 
necessary  to  report  this  particular  item  either  to  Governor  Quarry, 
or  even  the  virtuous  agent,  Ben  Backstay.  It  is  very  certain 
that  Joe  Sylvester,  the  puritan,  will  never  hear  a  syllable  of  it. 

The  arrangements  made  by  our  cruiser,  and  his  factotum,  Ben 
Backstay,  whose  own  claims  to  virtue  have  been  so  modest,  have 
all  been  successful.  Our  cruiser  has  done  his  own  "  camellino-," 

O" 

and  the  goods  are  stored  in  cell  and  chamber,  in  the  immediate 
keeping  of  Backstay.  He  will  distribute  them  in  due  season,  and 
through  proper  agencies.  And  thus  far,  that  doubtful  puritan, 
Joe  Sylvester,  has  been  kept  in  profound  ignorance  (at  least,  it  ia 
eupposed  so)  of  all  that  has  been  done.  The  first  intelligence  he 
will  get  of  the  "  run"  will  be  the  gradual  appearance  of  fine  silks 
and  satins,  and  shawls  and  stuffs  of  rich,  unwonted  patterns,  along 
the  fashionable  purlieus,  which  range  from  north  to  south,  along 
the  avenue,  no  longer  fashionable,  which  we  now  call  Church 
street.  The  fair  women  of  the  infant  city  will  do  the  first  work 


108  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KUWAIT. 

in  publishing  the  transaction  to  the  little  world  in  which  they  wan 
der.  What  to  them  the  fact  that  the  stuffs  are  contraband?  nay, 
that  they  are  won  by  the  strong  hand,  upon  the  high  seas,  in  spite 
of  law  and  gospel ;  and.  while  England  and  Spain  professedly 
keep  the  peace  in  European  seas,  they  are  here,  in  this  wild  hemi 
sphere,  as  deadlily  hostile  as  in  the  days  of  the  Armada  ;  while  the 
sentiment,  feeling,  opinion,  among  their  respective  peoples,  jus 
tify  the  hostility  which  their  respective  governments  ignore  ?  The 
dear  creatures  see  no  treason,  or  piracy,  or  blood,  or  violation  of 
law,  in  the  color,  the  quality,  the  texture,  or  the  beauty,  in  the  fine 
manufactures  in  which  they  flaunt.  Enough  that  they  are  fine 
and  fanciful,  make  them  look  fine,  and  come  to  them  at  prices 
which  would  cause  the  eyes  of  British  dames,  could  they  hear,  to 
gleam  with  envy.  The  best  of  them  see  no  harm  in  this  mode 
of  acquisition.  They  all  approve  of  smuggling  in  practice ;  and 
the  contrabandist  is  only  immoral  in  a  very  vague  and  remote 
sort  of  abstraction,  which  disturbs  no  social  piety  or  propriety. 

And  they  are  not  to  be  counted  any  worse,  you  are  to  under 
stand,  than  the  admirable  portions  of  their  sex  who  remain  in  the 
mother-country.  You  are  to  know  that  the  Palmetto  city,  even 
at  this  early  day,  has  its  fair  proportion  of  fair  women,  represent 
ing  almost  every  class  in  the  British  empire.  No  small  propor 
tion  of  its  population  has  recently  come  hither  from  Barbadoes 
and  other  islands,  from  Virginia,  and  the  Dutch  colony  of.  Nova 
Belgia  (New  York).  They  had  lived  in  most  of  these  places  in 
rather  flourishing  fashion ;  had  acquired  means,  and  are  emulous 
of  the  state,  dignity,  and  fashions  of  the  old  world.  And  there 
are  dashing  cavaliers  among  them,  with  wives  and  daughters,  who 
can  claim  kindred  with  the  old  families  of  Europe  —  with  the 
noblesse ;  who  could  already  boast  of  that  genuine  azul  sanyre 
which  is  almost  as  much  the  pride  of  the  British  as  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  race. 

And  so,  already,  Charleston  (then  Charles  town)  had  its  castes 
and  classes,  its  cliques  and  aristocracies ;  in  which,  people,  insist 
ing  upon  their  rights  of  rank,  grew  rank  in  doing  so,  and  were 
guilty  of  offences  against  humanity  and  good  sense,  such  as  cried 
to  Heaven :  at  all  events,  made  them  cry  ridiculously  loud  to 
earth.  There  were  people  who  were  "  in  society"  then  as  now ; 
who  turned  up  their  noses  so  high,  that  their  eyes  failed  to  recog- 


BIRD'S-EYE  VIEW  OF  THE  PROSPECT.  109 

nise  the  existence  of  their  nearest  neighbors.  And  there  were 
very  excellent  people,  who,  in  spite  of  virtues  and  talents,  were 
dismissed  from  all  regard,  even  the  human,  for  the  simple  hut 
sufficient  reason  that  they  were  not  "  in  society."  Those  talis- 
manic  words,  "  in  society/'  signifying  a  sort  of  virtues  which  are 
not  contained  in  any  catalogue  of  the  virtues  which  entitle  a  poor 
Christian  to  any  place  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

And  so,  Charleston  had  its  Lady  Loftyhead  and  Lady  High- 
heels,  Lady  Flirtahout  and  Lady  Fluster,  and  no  small  number 
of  a  class  besides,  whom  these  good  ladies  universally  voted  to  be 
no  ladies  at  all.  But  not  one  of  them,  high  or  low,  in  or  out  of 
society,  ever  found  the  moral  gorge  to  rise  at  the  idea  of  smug 
gled  silks,  or  even  pirate  traffic.  Nay,  the  dashing  rovers  them 
selves,  men  well  known  to  sail  under  the  "Jolly  Roger"  —  so  the 
flag  of  piracy  was  always  called  —  were  made  welcome,  and  migh 
be  seen  at  certain  periods  to  walk  the  streets  of  the  young  city, 
arm-in-arm  with  substantial  citizens  —  nay,  to  figure  in  court  cos 
tume  at  the  balls  of  the  Ladies  Loftyhead,  Highheels,  Flirtabout, 
and  Fluster,  all  satisfied  to  enjoy  the  gallantries  of  the  rover  with 
out  asking  to  see  too  closely  the  color  of  his  hands.  And  they 
had  their  reward  for  this  tolerance  of  the  Jolly  Rogers,  who  could 
accord  none  to  the  classes  not  "  in  society."  Many  a  smuggled 
or  stolen  shawl,  scarf,  ay,  jewel,  decorated  the  person  of  a  noble 
dame,  the  gift  of  the  dashing  flibustier ;  won  by  the  strong  hand, 
at  the  price  of  blood,  in  the  purple  waters  of  the  gulf.  And  soci 
ety  nowhere,  at  that  period,  attached  much  censure  to  this  mode 
of  acquisition.  Robbery  on  a  large  scale  has  been,  among  all 
nations,  considered  only  a  legitimate  mode  for  the  acquisition  of 
wealth ;  and  the  natural  human  sentiment,  "  in  society"  at  least, 
has  usually  been  persuaded  to  find  the  justifying  moral,  in  the 
degree  of  peril  in  which  the  game  of  plunder  is  carried  on.  He 
who  risks  his  life  in  the  spoliation,  seems  to  lift  his  criminal  occu 
pation  into  a  sort  of  dignity,  which  effectually  strips  it  of  tho  igno 
ble  traits  which  belong  to  simple  robbery. 

But  our  purpose  is  not  sarcasm.  We  doubt  if  the  we  rid  im 
proves  one  jot  from  all  the  truths  which  are  told  it,  especially  of 
itself;  and  we  doubt  if  it  can  improve  under  any  existing  condition  ; 
and  we  half  doubt  whether  it  was  designed  that  it  should  improve, 
beyond  a  certain  point ;  and  so  we  do  not  so  much  believe  in  a 


110  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

millenium  as  in  a  regeneration.  We  are  but  the  germs  for  a  new 
creation,  under  a  new  dispensation,  and  development  goes  just 
so  far  —  and  there  an  end  for  the  present. 

But,  before  \ve  leave  the  subject  of  the  ladies,  especially  those 
of  Charleston,  let  it  be  understood  that  our  captain  of  the  "Happy- 
go-Lucky"  is  by  no  means  unknown  to  fashionable  society  in  that 
quarter.  He  has  been  "  in  society"  in  more  natural,  that  is,  less 
legal  periods.  He  has  figured  in  the  ballrooms  of  Lady  Lofty- 
head,  and  Lady  Golightly,  and  other  great  people.  He  has  paid 
for  his  privileges.  Lady  Lofty  head  wears  his  diamond  ring  on 
her  finger  —  Lady  Golightly  as  glorious  a  pearl  necklace,  which  he 
threw  over  her  snowy  neck,  when  she  was  quite  willing  that  he 
should  see,  to  its  utmost  depths,  how  fair  and  white  it  was ;  and 
it  was  with  Lady  Anderson  that  he  contemplated  putting  the  fai 
Zulieme  in  the  event  of  his  bringing  her  to  Charleston.  He  has 
yet  to  ascertain,  in  what  degree  of  security  he  stands  in  the  com 
munity —  saying  nothing  of  society — before  he  can  venture  upon 
the  hospitality  of  so  magnificent  a  dame. 

And  he  is  now  in  the  process  of  investigation. 

He  has  "  run"  his  fourth  boat-load  in  safety.  This  comprises 
all  the  compact  and  choice  articles  in  his  cargo.  This  rest  will 
need  more  force;  a  greater  number  of  "  camels ;"  a  greater  de 
gree  of  peril.  He  may  now  allow  himself  to  see  Mr.  Joe  Sylves 
ter,  formerly  one  of  his  most  able  agents.  He  will  now  venture 
upon  an  interview  with  Governor  Robert  Quarry,  whose  virtues 
as  a  politician  have  saved  him  from  the  sin  of  pharisaism.  The 
governor  does  not  eschew  the  society  of  publicans  and  sinners. 

How  Captain  Calvert  found  his  way  into  the  private  apart 
ments  of  his  excellency,  through  what  agency  of  Ken  Backstay 
and  others,  we  might  make  a  long  story.  It  will  suffice  that  we 
find  him  there,  safely  ensconced  in  the  chair  of  Bermuda  cane  and 
manufacture,  in  which  his  excellency  himself  ordinarily  sits  when 
dealing  with  vulgar  people.  But  Calvert  is  none  of  your  vulgai 
people ;  and,  seen  with  Quarry,  you  would  say  the  cruiser  is  the 
lord ;  the  governor,  a  clever  adventurer  to  whom  a  roving  com 
mission  has  been  confided  by  a  master. 

The  two  are  together.  We  have  seen  something  of  Calvert 
already.  Of  Quarry —  but,  dealing  with  a  politician  now,  we  must 
begin  with  a  new  chapter. 


SOMETHING   OF   THE    POLITICIAN.  Ill 


CHAPTER   XL 

SOMETHING    OF    THE    POLITICIAN. 

Burnet.  Speak  to  the  card,  I  say. 

Say.  And  I  say,  rather,  let  the  cards  have  speech, 

While  you  say  nothing.     He  is  but  a  dolt, 

That  lets  his  game  to  lie  on  any  card ! 
Clare.  Nay,  brother  Say,  an  it  but  lie  on  the  card, 

The  speech  is  well  enough  for  such  a  game ! 

GOVERNOR  ROBERT  QUARRY,  of  whom  our  Carolina  chronicles 
speak  in  very  meagre  phraseology,  was  a  courtier ;  had  a  fine 
person — -one  of  the  necessities  of  the  courtier  —  a  good  face,  a 
graceful,  insinuating  manner,  and  certain  accomplishments  of  mind 
and  training,  which  had  conducted  him  to  a  certain  degree  of 
success  in  worldly  acquisitions.  It  was  through  his  merits,  as  a 
courtier,  that  he  had  reached  the  governorship  of  the  infant  colony 
of  South  Carolina,  a  remote  and  feeble  settlement  on  the  borders 
of  a  heathen  country,  and  in  near  proximity  to  the  Spaniards  of 
Florida,  always  the  relentless  enemies  of  the  English.  Such  a 
position  required  other  abilities  than  those  of  the  simple  cour 
tier  ;  but  competence  to  office  was  no  more  the  requisite  in  those 
days  than  in  ours  ;  and  the  chief  merit  in  office  then,  as  the  chief 
object  in  its  pursuit,  was  the  capacity  to  fatten  fast  upon  fortune, 
and  to  make  as  rapid  stretches  as  possible  toward  its  attainment. 
No  long  time  was  allowed  to  anybody;  the  tenure  of  office  being 
usually  too  short,  in  those  periods,  to  suffer  the  politician  to  dilly 
dally  with  opportunity.  He  had  to  feather  his  nest  as  rapidly  as 
any  other  bird  of  passage.  Whether  the  courtier  befoi  )  us  was 
properly  doing  his  duty  to  himself,  we  shall  perhaps  see  as  we 
proceed.  In  what  concerns  his  character,  we  prefer  to  let  Gov 
ernor  Quarry  speak  for  himself. 


112  THE   CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAI1. 

His  person,  we  have  said,  was  good  ;  his  manners  those  of  a  cour 
tier  ;  easy,  deliberate  ;  rather  staid^  perhaps  —  rather  too  courtly, 
as  was  the  etiquette  in  those  days  —  too  nice  and  mincing,  but 
ever  according  to  the  rules.  As  you  see  him  now,  in  a  private 
chamber  of  his  own  dwelling  (low  down  in  Church  street),  hab 
ited  " point  device"  with  a  pleasant  half  smile  upon  his  lips,  and 
that  partly  stooping  attitude  which  is  so  natural  to  a  tall  man,  and 
so  proper  in  a  courtier ;  he  shows  well  enough.  "We  see  that  he 
would  show  well  in  the  ballroom  ;  at  a  royal  levee ;  in  any  situa 
tion  which  makes  ease  of  deportment,  and  flexibility  of  movement, 
and  a  gentle  self-complaisance,  essential  elements  of  the  morale  in 
society. 

But,  showing  well  as  a  courtier,  he  shows  at  disadvantage  in 
contrast  with  the  Herculean  proportions,  and  the  lofty  freedom 
the  manly,  almost  brusque  carriage,  the  brave  simplicity  and  dig 
nity,  of  the  rover,   Calvert,  captain  of  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky," 
whom  we  find  closeted  with  him  at  this  moment. 

The  costume  of  our  rover  has  undergone  some  changes  since 
we  made  his  acquaintance.  He,  too,  recognises  the  necessity  of  a 
more  courtier-like,  a  more  pacific  appearance.  Accordingly,  he 
figures  in  a  rich  black  suit,  such  as  was  worn  by  the  gentlemen  of 
the  day.  He  has  great  ruffles  at  his  shirt  bosom  and  wrists.  He 
wears  knee-breeches  and  silk  stockings.  He  carries  a  rapier  at 
his  side.  His  hat  is  steeple-crowned,  but  of  felt  or  beaver,  no 
longer  of  straw  or  Panama.  And,  though  it  may  lessen  his  free 
dom  of  carriage,  we  are  constrained  to  admit  that  the  costume  of 
"  King  Charles's  cavaliers,"  sets  off  his  fine  figure  to  advantage. 
He  has,  we  may  mention  here,  been  accustomed  to  appear  in  it, 
and  in  high  places 

How  he  has  found  his  way  into  the  private  apartments  of  the 
govern  jr  of  Carolina,  we  may  easily  conjecture  from  previous 
portions  of  this  history.  He  has  probably  been  conducted  thither 
by  Backstay,  and  in  secresy,  under  cover  of  the  night.  He  is  now, 
at  all  events,  an  inmate  of  the  governor's  mansion  ;  and  that  gov 
ernor  holds  in  his  escritoire  an  orcfcr  from  the  English  lords  in 
council  for  his  arrest  and  execution  — "  short  shrift  and  sudden 
cord"  —  as  a  pirate  of  the  high  seas! 

Calvert  has  reason  to  suspect  the  fact.  The  governor  has  not 
yet  permitted  him  to  know  it.  But  he  knows  the  governor,  and 


SOMETHING    OF   THE    POLITICIAN.  118 

finds  his  securities  in  the  character  of  the  man,  rather  than  the 
commission  of  the  official. 

That  he  suspects,  has  the  effect  of  lifting  his  proportions. 
There  is  a  lofty  superiority  in  his  manner.  His  eye  searches 
keenly  into  that  of  the  governor  for  the  secret  of  his  soul.  You 
are  not  to  suppose  our  rover  a  pirate,  in  our  ordinary  sense  of  the 
character,  because  the  British  government  has  declared  him  so. 
The  British  government  has  been  more  of  a  pirate  than  its  offi 
cials.  He  has  had  a  British  commission  for  his  authority,  issued 
at  a  time  when  such  commissions  were  frequent  enough  ;  when 
the  British  people  welcomed  every  injury  done  to  Spain,  or 
France,  as  good  service  to  the  nation ;  and  the  then  monarch  of 
England,  himself,  has  knighted  the  most  brutal  of  all  the  pirati 
cal  captains  who  ever  preyed  upon  Spanish  property,  life,  and 
commerce. 

"  You  do  not  tell  me  all,  Governor  Quarry,"  said  our  captain, 
quite  abruptly ;  "  but  I  can  conjecture  what  you  conceal.  You 
hold  a  commission  for  arresting  me.  Speak  out,  sir,  like  a  man, 
and  let  us  understand  each  other  at  the  outset." 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear  captain,  that  affair  of  the  *  Donna  Maria 
del  Occidente'  has  caused  a  precious  stir  at  court.  It  was  a  ter 
rible  affair,  you  will  admit.  A  Spanish  man-of-war  sunk,  her 
captain  slain,  her  crew  cut  to  pieces !" 

"  It  was  a  fair  fight ;  she  was  of  superior  size  and  mettle,  and 
fired  the  first  gun,  the  flag  of  England  all  the  while  flying  at  our 
masthead.  There  was  no  slaughter  save  what  took  place  in 
actual  battle." 

"  Very  true.  I  believe  it  all.  But  it  happened,  unfortunately, 
that  Don  Jose  de — something " 

"  Salvador,"  interposed  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  Salvador,  her  commander,  who  fell  under  your  own  cut 
lass,  proves  to  have  been  the  nephew  to  the  Spanish  embassador 
at  our  court,  and  he  has  been  kicking  up  the  very  devil  on  the 
subject ;  and,  just  at  this  time,  it  is  the  policy  of  our  sovereign  to 
maintain  a  good  understanding  with  the  court  of  Spain." 

"Policy! — Ay!  policy!  The  rogue's  argument  always.  But 
no  policy  can  be  proper  to  the  English  nation,  at  the  expense  of 
English  honor." 

'"  Ah !  my  friend"  —  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  which  would 


114  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

have  been  recognised  as  quite  courtly  even  at  Versailles  —  "this 
national  honor  is  very  gjod  capital  in  a  speech  at  the  opening  of 
parliament,  but  must  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  those  nice 
little  arrangements  which  are  found  to  be  essential  to  individual 
interests.  The  king,  like  the  lords,  and  even  such  poor  common 
ers  and  courtiers  as  ourselves,  needs  sometimes  to  make  a  waiver 
of  the  national  credit  for  the  better  keeping  of  his  own." 

"  Ay,  he  would  sell  the  nation,  as  he  sold  Dunkirk.  Oh,  for  a 
year  of  old  Oliver  once  more !" 

"Fie!  fie!  my  dear  fellow  —  this  is  rank  heresy  and  treason ! 
This  will  never  do.  Remember,  if  only  in  regard  to  my  honor, 
that  I  am  the  king's  official,  though  under  the  creation  only  of  the 
lords-proprietors.  I  do  not  object  to  your  treasonable  sentiments 
at  all.  Indulge  them  if  you  please.  But,  spare  my  ears!  1 
must  not  hear.  We  are  good  friends  to-day,  but  what  we  shall  be 
to-morrow  is  another  matter ;  and  I  will  not  suffer  my  neck  to  be 
perilled  with  a  halter  because  you  have  a  loose  sort  of  eloquence 
in  respect  to  the  rights  of  the  crown." 

The  rover  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  and  strode  the 
floor,  as  if  to  subdue  a  still  further  expression  of  offence.  Then 
turning  quickly  about,  he  said  : — 

"  But  you  do  not  answer  my  question,  Governor  Quarry." 

"Which  of  them,  captain?  If  I  remember  rightly,  you  have 
done  me  the  honor  to  propound  several." 

•  "  Pshaw !  there  was  but  one.     Have  you  any  authority  for  my 
arrest  ?" 

The  governor  smiled  pleasantly,  went  to  his  escritoir,  opened  it, 
and  handed  our  rover  a  heavy  piece  of  parchment.  He  read  the 
title  as  he  handed  the  instrument  to  the  rover  — 

"  For  the  better  putting  down  of  piracy  in  the  colonies,  &c." 

Seals  and  signatures  attested  the  validity  of  the  document. 
Captain  Calvert  gave  it  but  a  glance,  then  threw  it  back  to  the 
official. 

"  Well,  you  have  your  order,  Governor  Quarry ;  and  —  I  am 
here !" 

And  Calvert  folded  his  arms  upon  his  bosom,  and  planted  him 
self  before  the  governor. 

"  May  be  so,  captain.  But,  unless  you  proclaim  it  from  the 
housetops,  I  arn  not  to  know  that  you  are  here.  To  me  you  do 


SOMETHING   OF   THE   POLITICIAN.  115 

not  appear  a  pirate.  I  do  not  know  you  as  the  person  mentioned 
in  this  instrument." 

"  You  know  that  I  am  no  pirate ;  that,  for  all  that  I  have  done, 
I  have  a  commission  under  the  very  sanction  of  those  by  whom 
that  paper  has  been  signed.  I  am  willing  to  be  tried  for  tli" 
offences  alleged  against  me.  I  will  confront  kings,  lords,  and  com 
mons,  equally,  in  the  assertion  of  my  honor." 

"  My  dear  captain,  hear  to  reason.  Such  a  proceeding  would 
involve  a  very  great  scandal.  The  treaty  with  Spain,  which  wo 
are  all  bound  to  respect  as  the  law  of  the  land,  is  of  date  anterior 
to  your  commission.  That  treaty  declares  all  those  to  be  pirates 
who  prey  upon  Spanish  commerce  or  dominion  in  America." 

"  Of  that  treaty,"  replied  our  sturdy  rover,  "  I  knew  not  a  syl 
lable.  I  only  knew  that  the  people  of  England  regarded  the 
power  and  the  people  of  Spain  as  enemies  of  man  and  God  — 
of  all  things  and  objects  which  are  held  sacred  and  becoming. 
They  were  the  enemies  of  nations.  They  were  outlawed  by  our 
nation.  If  that  treaty  was  on  record  when  my  commission  was 
given  to  me,  then  kings,  and  lords-proprietors,  and  governors, 
were  the  criminals.  I  am  none.  Shall  I  passively  submit  to  be 
the  scapegoat  for  such  rogues  as  these  ?" 

"  Patiently,  my  dear  captain,  and  hear  me  for  a  moment.  Do 
you  not  see  that  the  same  policy  which  conferred  your  commis 
sion,  while  that  treaty  was  in  existence,  is  still  present  to  main 
tain  you  in  your  course,  provided  you  do  not  force  yourself  upon 
the  notice  of  your  judges.  The  governor,  who  is  not  made  to 
see  you,  while  the  world  is  looking  on,  has  no  motive  for  your 
arrest.  He  need  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you  are  within 
his  jurisdiction." 

"  But  this  will  not  suit  me,  Governor  Quarry.  I  have  no  wish 
to  violate  law  or  treaty ;  have  no  desire  to  screen  my  deeds  from 
the  world's  examination.  I  have  fought  with  Frenchman  and 
Spaniard  —  would  fight  with  them  to  the  crack  of  doom  —  even 
as  Drake  and  Cavendish  did,  and  glory  in  the  danger ;  but  only 
while  my  country  claps  hands  and  looks  on  applaudingly.  If  we 
are  to  be  sold  to  Frenchman  or  Spaniard,  I  wash  my  hands  of 
the  business.  I  have  no  wish  to  fight  merely  on  sufferance,  and 
to  be  seized  and  hung  at  the  caprice  of  a  treacherous  court." 

"  Do  not  be  rash,  my  dear  captain.     The  treacheries  of  court 


116  THF    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

are  like  those  of  love  and  lovers.  They  are  supposed  to  plead 
t.fcpir  own  excuse,  by  reason  of  their  pleasantries.  And  yours  is 
a  very  pretty  business,  captain,  that  somewhat  compensates  for 
all  its  risks.  A  very  pretty  business,  I  assure  you." 

"  You  have  some  reason  to  say  so,  Governor  Quarry.  By  the 
•A  ay,  there  are  a  thousand  pieces  of  eight  [dollars]  in  yonder  can- 
vass-sack,  which  I  brought  hither  for  you.'' 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  captain,  I  can  not  accept  them !  That 
would  be  bribery.  You  are  entirely  tcu  direct  in  your  approaches, 
sapping  human  virtue :  as  direct  as  if  assaulting  the  Spaniard. 
You  are  no  courtier,  captain." 

"  Thank  God  for  it !" 

"  That  is  as  you  please.  It  is,  after  all,  a  mere  matter  of  taste. 
Now,  were  I,  by  simple  accident,  unassisted,  to  happen  upon  that 
sack,  with  a  thousand  pieces  of  eight  —  nay,  were  it  two  thou 
sand  —  it  would  hardly  occasion  any  difference ;  were  I  to  find  it, 
I  say,  in  a  corner  of  my  chamber,  I  should  possibly,  at  first,  won 
der  whence  it  came ;  but,  having  no  information  on  the  subject,  I 
should,  after  a  while,  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  some  odd 
sum  that  I  had  set  aside  for  a  special  purpose,  and  forgotten  in 
the  press  of  other  affairs.  The  novelty  of  such  a  discovery  would 
not  diminish  the  satisfaction  that  I  should  feel  on  the  occasion. 
It  would  only  provoke  certain  reflections  upon  the  singular  indif 
ference  which  courtiers,  particularly  when  in  official  station,  feel 
in  respect  to  money !  How  little  do  we  value,  how  we  waste, 
spend,  consume  it,  utterly  regardless  of  the  source  of  supply ! 
It  is,  certainly,  a  very  profligate  life,  this  of  the  courtier  and 
official." 

"  As  you  please.  Find  it  when  you  please.  Enough  that  the 
sack  lies  in  your  chamber.  You  will  be  so  good  as  to  appropriate 
it ;  suppose  that  you  are  fortunate  in  unexpected  supplies  —  and 
that  I  have  not  spoken  !" 

"  Exactly.  You  are  quick  in  idea.  It  is  refreshing  to  think 
that  one  is  always  in  the  way  of  discovery ;  that  there  are  guar 
dian  genii,  ever  watchful,  with  lamp  and  ring,  so  that  we  shall 
happen,  every  now  and  then,  upon  unsunned  treasures.  And 
now,  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear  captain,  that  you  will  simply  need 
to  pursue  your  walks,  while  in  Carolina,  with  the  same  circum 
spection  which  you  have  thus  far  practised.  You  need  not  show 


SOMETHING   OF   THE   POLITICIAN.  117 

yourself  unnecessarily  about  town.  You  will  not  expect  our  rec 
ognition,  unless  you  specially  force  yourself  upon  our  official  mem 
ories.  Our  people  do  not  so  far  sympathize  with  French  or 
Spaniard  as  to  approve  of  treaties  which  cut  off  a  profitable  trade  ; 
and  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  quarrel  with  a  fortune  that  lays 
a  sack  of  Spanish  dollars  occasionally  in  a  corner  of  my  chamber." 

"  We  understand  each  other,  governor.  So  for,  so  good  !  But, 
under  existing  conditions,  it  will  be  hardly  wise  or  proper  for  me 
to  pursue  a  vocation  which  has  been  put  under  the  ban  of  law. 
It  is  quite  enough  of  peril  to  face  death  at  the  mouth  of  Spanish 
cannon.  To  confront  him  again  at  the  hands  of  my  own  people, 
and  through  the  agency  of  a  public  executioner,  is  a  prospect 
which  the  bravest  man  may  well  refuse  to  contemplate.  This  is 
probably  the  last  of  the  cruises  that  the  '  Happy-go-Lucky'  will 
make  —  at  least  under  her  present  commander." 

"  What !  the  gallant  Captain  Calvert,  the  terror  of  the  Spanish 
seas  and  dons,  frightened  by  false  fires?  Why,  my  dear  fellow, 
do  you  not  see  that  this  treaty  is  all  a  sham  —  a  pretence  —  dust 
in  the  eyes  of  Europe?  ffere,  I  tell  you,  that  patriotism  which 
takes  the  Spaniard  by  the  beard  is  the  very  first  of  virtues  !" 

"  Yet,  you  caution  me  how  I  show  myself  in  the  streets." 

"  Oh  !  we  have  to  keep  up  appearances.  But  this  means  noth 
ing  ;  all  we  insist  upon  is  modesty.  No  one  is  required  to  publish 
his  virtues  unnecessarily.  With  this  forbearance  on  your  part, 
no  one  asks  whence  the  broad  gold  pieces  come  which  finally  find 
their  way  into  the  pockets  of  the  citizen.  We  hate  the  Spaniards, 
but  take  their  onzas  to  our  pockets,  and  him  who  brings  them  to 
our  hearts ;  and  neither  see  the  red  blood  on  their  faces  nor  on 
his  hands !  All  we  ask  of  you  is  caution,  my  dear  captain ;  and 
suffer  your  friends  to  see  you  only  in  private,  as  at  present." 

"  But  is  it  so  sure  that  there  is  no  prying  curiosity,  which  will 
be  at  some  pains  to  pluck  the  mask  from  the  face  of  secrecy  ? 
They  tell  me  of  fresh  counsellors  among  you  who  have  been  seized 
with  a  sudden  fit  of  zeal,  under  an  overwhelming  flood  of  piety, 
and  who  are  for  searching  out  all  the  sore  places  of  society  —  all 
its  tender  places,  at  least." 

u  And  you  have  been  told  the  truth.  The  council  is  changed, 
and  such  is  the  fervor  of  certain  of  its  members.  Middleton  and 
Morton  have  had  a  new  impulse,  in  this  direction,  in  consequence 


118  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

of  the  presence  of  Colonel  Edward  Berkeley,  a  nephew  of  one  of 
our  lords-proprietors,  who  has  lately  moved  out  to  Carolina.  He 
has  bought  his  twenty-four  thousand  acres  of  land  on  the  Kiawah, 
and  has  been  made  a  cassique  of  that  precinct.  As  a  nephew  of 
Sir  William,  he  is  understood  to  be  more  in  the  confidence  of  the 
lords-proprietors  than  any  of  the  rest;  and  the  good  lords,  spe 
cially  enlivened,  if  not  enlightened,  on  the  subject  themselves, 
have  been  at  pains  to  egg  him  on  to  a  degree  of  activity  whfch 
keeps  the  whole  council  in  a  fidget.  The  king,  it  seems,  has 
sought  to  excuse  the  crown  to  the  Spaniard,  by  insisting  upon  the 
quasi  independent  character  of  the  proprietary  governments.  He 
flings  from  his  own  shoulders  the  imputation  of  sheltering  the 
cruisers  against  Spanish  property,  by  fastening  the  offence  upon 
the  colonies.  And  the  proprietors  have  had  to  undergo  the  re 
buke,  in  the  very  presence  of  the  Spanish  embassador  —  and  bear 
it  in  silence  —  though  they  knew,  all  the  while,  that  nobody  had 
ever  given  so  much  sanction  to  the  practice  as  the  crown  itself. 
But  that  wouldn't  do  to  say,  you  know;  and  so  our  good  lords 
had  to  curse  in  secret  —  had  to  writhe  in  passion,  with  their  dumb 
mouths  —  while  our  gracious  master  read  them  a  very  proper  les 
son  touching  the  laws  of  nations,  the  singular  love  and  sympathy 
which  England  should  entertain  for  Spain  especially,  the  peculiar 
vice  of  piracy,  the  peculiar  beauty  of  holiness,  and  the  great  ne 
cessity  which  existed  for  compelling  the  loose  and  licentious  society 
of  the  colonies  to  emulate,  in  all  respects,  the  virtues  of  the  court 
and  the  piety  of  king  and  people.  Nobody  laughed  but  the  Span 
iard  at  this  homily,  and  he  only  in  his  court-sleeves,  which  are 
made  capacious,  for  the  due  concealment  of  honest  sentiments. 
And  thereafter  his  most  sacred  majesty  was  to  be  seen  on  all- 
fours,  with  Louise  de  Querouaille  and  the  other  dames  of  the 
seraglio  in  the  same  comely  attitude,  hunting  a  poor  butterfly,  who 
might  have  been  pirating  on  bosoms  that  were  sufficiently  open  to 
all  sorts  of  invaders.  But,  ridiculous  as  was  the  sermon  to  all  those 
who  knew  the  king,  our  worthy  lords-proprietors  were  not  permit 
ted  to  defend  themselves.  It  is  not  allowed  at  court  that  truth 
shall  save  the  subject,  to  the  scandal  of  the  crown  or  the  cour 
tiers  ;  and  the  rule  is  a  good  one.  So  you  see  what  stimulates 
the  sudden  zeal  of  our  council,  in  this  matter  of  piracy,  just  at  this 
moment.  You  also  see,  I  doubt  not,  that  no  one  need  give  it  fur- 


SOMETHING    OF   THE    POLITICIAN.  119 

ther  heed  than  simply  to  forbear  all  unnecessary  publicity  in  what 
is  properly  a  very  private  practice." 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"  This  will  hardly  suit  me,  Governor  Quarry." 

"  Pooh  !  pooh !  why  not  ?  What  need  of  further  scruples  ?  See 
this  commission.  It  instructs  me  to  seize,  and  try,  and  hang  you 
—  nay,  to  hang  you  without  trial,  as  soon  as  I  can  catch  you ;  but 
I  fling  it  into  my  drawer,  and  there  it  lies  harmless !  While  no 
one  sees  that  1  see  you,  and  knows  that  /  know  you,  and  can  as 
sert  that  I  have  had  you  in  my  power,  I  feel  no  necessity  for 
looking  up  the  commission,  nor  need  you  feel  any  apprehension 
because  you  happen  to  know  that  there  is  any  such  document  in 
existence." 

Calvert  was  about  to  answer,  but  arrested  himself,  and  walked 
slowly  for  awhile  up  and  down  the  chamber.  His  meditations, 
during  this  interval,  we  snail  deliver  hereafter.  When  he  did 
speak  again,  it  was  w.tn  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"  What  sort  of  man  is  this  Colonel  Berkeley  ?  I  fancy  I  have 
seen  him." 

"  Very  likely.  He  was  a  man  of  fashion  about  London  for  a 
few  seasons.  He  is  a  man  of  wealth  —  has  bought,  as  I  told  you, 
twenty-four  thousand  acres  on  the  Kiawah,  some  fifteen  miles  up 
on  the  western  banks,  and  is  preparing  to  put  up  a  baronial  estab 
lishment.  He  is  a  handsome  fellow,  but  cold  and  stern  —  not 
exactly  repelling,  but  standing  much  upon  his  dignity ;  affects 
state  and  authority,  but  seems  a  discontent.  Something  has  soured 
him.  He  is,  accordingly  —  probably  —  ambitious." 

"  Has  he  a  family  —  wife,  and  —  children?" 

"  Wife  and  one  child,  I  think." 

"Are  they  —  here?' 

uNot  in  town.  He  has  built  log-cabins,  for  temporary  use; 
and,  except  when  business  calls  him  here,  or  on  council-meetings, 
we  seldom  see  him.  He  lives  well,  though  in  seclusion  ;  is  perpet 
ually  doing  something,  will  make  his  establishment  a  grand  one, 
and,  if  he  carries  out  his  plans,  the  barony  of  Kiawah  will  be  a 
model  family-seat." 

Calvert  asked,  seemingly  without  caring  for  the  answer,  in  re 
spect  to  the  actual  locality  of  the  contemplated  barony,  and  other 
matters  relating  to  the  habits  of  the  proprietor,  and  the*  character 


120  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH 

ar,d  condition  of  the  family ;  to  all  of  which  the  governor  replied, 
without  supposing  that  the  querist  had  any  interest  in  the  answer. 
The  questions  of  the  rover  were  put  with  an  abrupt  carelessness, 
as  if  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  mere  momentary  curiosity.  Had  the 
interest  of  Quarry  been  greater  in  the  subject-matter,  he  would 
have  seen  that  this  abrupt  manner  of  the  questioner  covered 
deeper  emotions  than  belonged  to  simple  curiosity.  He  would 
have  detected,  in  the  slight  tremor  of  his  voice,  in  the  utterances 
of  his  last  words,  and  in  its  deeper  tones  —  always  deep  and  sono 
rous,  but  more  so  now,  as  if  with  effort  at  suppression  —  that  the 
subject  stirred  some  of  his  sensibilities  more  thoroughly  than  any 
other  which  had  been  discussed  between  them,  not  excepting  that 
which  would  seem  to  be  the  most  important  of  all  —  that  which 
threatened  his  safety. 

They  wrere  yet  speaking,  when  a  carriage  was  heard  at  the 
entrance.  Quarry  peeped  through  the  window,  and  said  : — 

"  It  is  Berkeley  now !  We  must  put  you  out  of  sight  for 
awhile,  my  dear  fellow.  This  way.  You  will  be  snug  here,  and 
in  safety." 

And  he  led  him  to  the  adjoining  chamber,  and  closed  the  door 
upon  him. 

"  I  am  in  a  trap  now,  should  that  man  prove  treacherous,"  was 
the  soliloquy  of  Calvert.  "  But  he  will  hardly  prove  so,  so  long 
as  it  is  profitable  to  keep  faith.  No  !  I  must  only  not  suffer  him 
to  know  that  my  occupation  ends  with  the  present  cruise.  He 
must  still  be  kept  in  expectation  of  other  canvass-bags,  to  be  found 
unexpectedly  in  the  corner  of  his  chamber." 

His  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  reappearance  of 
the  governor,  dragging  after  him  the  sack  of  dollars.  With  a 
pleasant  chuckle,  he  said  : — 

"  Suffer  this  to  remain  with  you  u  space.  It  is  a  waif — some 
thing  I  have  found ;  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  turns  out  to  be 
Spanish  pieces  of  eight — possibly  something  still  more  precious! 
It  is  right  pleasant,  certainly,  to  be  in  the  way  of  fortune  !  But 
the  world  need  not  know  that  one  is  lucky ;  nothing  so  much 
offends  it.  The  '  happy'  are  those  only  who  '  go  lucky,'  my  dear 
fellow ;  and  the  world  envies  the  happy  man,  as  if  he  were  per 
petually  in  the  way  of  other  people.  —  But  Berkeley  enters.  You 
may  listen,  and  hear  all  that  is  said.  Pray,  do  so.  It  may  some- 


SOMETHING   OF   THE   POLITICIAN.  121 

what  concern  your  own  fortunes.  Listen  for  another  reason.  He 
is  something  of  a  curiosity ;  is  antiquated  in  his  notions  of  virtue ; 
believes  in  human  perfectibility,  and  speaks  of  humanizing  the 
Indians,  and  putting  them  in  the  small-clothes  of  civilization,  as 
if  it  were  any  concern  of  his,  yours,  or  mine,  whether  men  go  to 
tire  devil  or  not !  We  are  wiser,  and  know  that  the  best  way  to 
take  care  of  a  race  is  to  see  that  one  does  not  himself  go  bare !'' 

6 


THE   CASSIQUE    OP   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XIIc 

GLIMPSES    OF   THE    CASSIQUE. 

'  A  man  of  earnest  purposes,  he  bends 
His  head  with  speechless  prayer;  and  in  his  t^ils, 
Lives  in  becoming  sense  of  what  is  self." 

CALVERT  answered  the  politician  only  with  a  look  of  indiffer 
ence  that  might  as  well  have  been  contempt.  "  Ay/  thought  he, 
as  the  other  went,  "  such  is,  no  doubt,  the  moral  by  which  you 
live.  But,  unless  Edward  Berkeley  be  wonderfully  changed  since 
I  last  knew  him,  he  is  as  much  superior  to  you  in  wisdom  as  he 
is  in  virtue.  Alas !  how  I  loved  him !  How  great,  I  fancied, 
was  his  love  for  me  !  Yet  has  he  stepped  between  me  and  hope 
—  thrown  his  larger  fortunes  between  me  and  happiness,  and  cut 
me  off  from  all  that  was  precious  in  the  heart's  sunlight.  Oh, 
Edwara  Berkeley !  there  is  bu*.  one  thing  that  shall  move  me 
truly  to  forgiveness.  1  must  know  that  you  have  sinned  against 
me  in  ignorance ;  that  you  knew  not,  when  you  passed  between 
me  and  the  object  of  my  first  fond  affections,  that  she  was  so  pre 
cious  in  my  sight.  And  I  would  fain  believe  it ;  and  it  may  be 
so!  Jack  Belcher  is  shrewd  and  sagacious  —  honest  as  well  as 
shrewd.  He  will  have  it  that  you  were  ignorant.  You  knew  not 
of  the  ties  that  bound  her  to  me  —  to  me  only  —  that  woman 
whom  you  now  proudly  call  your  own  !  Be  it  so ;  and  I  can  for 
give  you  !  But  for  her?  What  plea,  what  excuse  can  she  make 
for  her  cruel  abandonment  of  the  younger  for  the  elder  son ! 

"  Yes,  it  is  he  !"  he  murmured,  as  the  voice  of  the  visiter  reached 
him  from  the  adjoining  chamber  —  "the  same  clear,  manly  ton<3S. 
Surely  there  can  not  be  meanness,  or  falsehood,  or  fraud,  under 
such  a  tongue." 

He  stepped  to  the  door  which  opened  into  the  other  chamber. 
An  irresistible  curiosity  to  behold  the  visiter — to  employ  sight  as 


GLIMPSES   OF   THE   CASSIQUE.  123 

well  as  hearing — moved  him  to  explore  the  crannies  of  the  door, 
In  the  hope  to  gratify  this  feeling ;  but  the  door  had  been  made 
fast  by  Quarry  as  he  went  out.  Our  captain  could  see  nothing. 
But  every  syllable  spoken  within  came  distinctly  to  his  ears. 
There  was  no  reserve  on  the  part  of  either  speaker. 

The  governor  was  all  civility.  His  role  was  evidently  that  of 
conciliation.  The  cassique  of  Kiawah  —  a  rich  landed  proprietor, 
cue  of  the  newly-constituted  Carolina  nobility,  under  a  system 
which  only  made  bald  recognition  of  the  crown  rather  as  an  ab 
straction  than  an  absolute  power  —  and  the  nephew  of  one  of  the 
landed  proprietors,  supposed  not  only  to  represent  his  will  but  to 
be  his  favorite  —  such  a  person  was  to  be  conciliated.  The  gov 
ernor  was  very  courtly,  accordingly  —  quite  solicitous;  his  smooth 
accents,  and  poli*hed  speech,  and  adroit  compliment,  all  being 
judiciously  employed — just  saving  sycophancy  and  servility  —  to 
persuade  his  visiter  into  a  pleasant  frame  of  self-complacency, 
which  is  the  process  when  dealing  with  all  effeminate  minds. 

This  was  Quarry's  mistake.  The  cassique  was  by  no  means  a 
man  of  effeminate  mind.  He  was  no  courtier,  and  disdajned  the 
petty  vanities  of  society;  had  no  artifices  himself;  was  a  person 
of  direct,  manly  character,  grasping  at  power  and  performance, 
and  nowise  accessible  to  shams  and  shows,  and  the  mere  tricks 
and  trappings  of  convention.  He  endured  the  courtly  prelimina 
ries  of  Governor  Quarry,  though  with  some  unexpressed  impatience. 

"  Yes,  I  am  settled,  after  a  fashion  —  hutting  it,  for  the  summer, 
in  log-cabins.  These  we  have  made  tolerably  comfortable.  I 
would  have  found  them  so,  under  the  naked  poles;  but  Lady 
Berkeley  and  her  mother  have  been  used  to  a  different  life,  and, 
with  all  my  pains-taking,  the  contrast  must  still  be  a  prodigious 
one,  their  present  with  their  past.  I  had  to  combine  the  house 
with  the  fortress,  as  you  know,  and  the  enclosures  require  to  be  a 
sort  of  court  of  guard,  rather  than  simple  fences.  They  will  give 
us  temporary  refuge,  and  may  be  covered  by  musketry  from  the 
block-houses  which  occupy  the  four  corners  of  some  fifteen  acres. 
The  dwelling  in  the  centre  is  itself  a  *  block  ;'  and,  with  the  neigh 
boring  offices,  all  at  hand,  the  fences,  the  palisades  all  complete, 
and  the  gates  up,  twenty  men  may  keep  them  against  five  hun 
dred  of  the  savages." 

"  That  ^eminds  me,  my  dear  cassique,  to  ask  if  the  redskins 


124  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

have  been  seen  in  your  neighborhood  lately.  I  have  advices  from 
the  frontier  that  they  are  moving  down  in  our  direction  in  rather 
large  divisions.  The  hunting-season  is  temporarily  over,  and  the 
fishing  begun.  This  necessarily  brings  them  to  the  watercourses 
and  the  seaboard,  out  of  the  interior.  And  I  know  not  that  this 
should  occasion  any  anxiety.  But  they  are  reported  to  be  more 
numerous  than  usual.  It  is  suspected  that  they  bring  with  them 
tribes  which  hitherto  have  lived  wholly  in  the  interior,  and  there 
is  also  said  to  be  some  discontent  among  them  —  some  complaints 
about  lands  and  trespassers  —  to  say  nothing  of  that  common  sub 
ject  of  complaint,  that  the  English  do  not  make  their  presents 
sufficiently  frequent  or  sufficiently  large  for  the  wants  of  the  chil 
dren  of  the  wilderness.  They  are,  by-the-way,  as  greedy  in  their 
desires  as  a — " 

"  As  a  courtier,"  replied  the  other,  completing  the  sentence  just 
as  Quarry  halted  for  a  proper  comparison. 

"Thank  you,  yes  —  exactly.  A  good  hit,  my  dear  colonel. 
Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  But  we,  who  have  sunned  ourselves  in  royal  favor, 
must  not  quarrel  with  the  world's  sneer.  But  to  return  to  our 
red  men  ? — " 

"  Thus  far,"  said  the  cassique,  "  I  see  nothing  to  apprehend.  I 
see  very  few  of  the  tribes  as  yet.  Some  stragglers  have  shown 
themselves  at  the  barony,  and  been  fed.  They  gave  no  trouble. 
I  am  in  treaty  with  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Stonos  and  Sewees 
for  his  son,  whom  I  propose  to  employ  as  a  hunter  to  supply  me 
with  venison.  He  is  a  mere  boy  of  sixteen,  upon  whom  I  design 
an  experiment.  I  wish  to  see  if  I  can  not  detach  him  gradually 
from  the  life  of  the  woods.  My  purpose  is  ultimately  a  more  ex 
tensive  one  —  the  gradual  diversion  of  the  tribes  from  barbarism 
to  the  civilizing  tasks  of  culture." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  cassique,  you  are  nursing  philanthropy  in  defi 
ance  of  all  experience.  You  might  as  well  warm  the  frozen  snake 
at  your  fireside,  and  hope  that  its  gratitude  will  take  the  venom 
out  of  its  fangs.  There  is  but  one  safe  course  with  these  savages. 
It  is  that  which  the  New-Englanders  employed.  Buy  up  the 
scalps  of  the  warriors,  and  sell  the  women  and  children  to  the 
West  Indies.  This  is  our  proper  policy." 

"  But  this,  you  are  aware,  is  positively  forbidden  by  the  lords- 
proprietors." 


GLIMPSES   OF   THE   CAS.SIQUE.  125 

"  The  Lord  send  them  a  better  wisdom  !  Here  are  these  tribes 
about  us,  pretending  peace,  yet  your  laborers  have  to  carry  the 
shovel  or  axe  in  one  hand  and  the  musket  in  the  other." 

"  Ay,  because  they  have  been  much  more  free  with  musket  than 
with  axe  or  shovel.  Had  they  been  content  to  clear  and  culti 
vate  we  should  have  had  little  trouble  with  the  red  man.  I,  at 
least,  shall  try  the  pacific  and  humane  policy,  and  see  what  will 
come  of  it." 

"  May  you  live  to  see  !  But  take  my  counsel :  in  taking  up  the 
spade,  do  not  put  down  the  musket." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  adopt  all  proper  precautions.  My  fortress  shall 
be  well  garrisoned.  I  am  now  looking  out  for  laborers,  who  shall 
be  gunmen  also.  Should  you  hear  of  any,  who  will  answer  in 
this  twofold  capacity,  pray  secure  them  for  me.  What  advices 
lately  from  England  ?" 

"  None  :  we  may  look  for  the  '  Swallow*  packet  daily." 

"  Is  it  not  strange  neglect  of  us,  that  there  are  no  war-ships  on 
our  station  ?  Here  we  have  the  most  stringent  orders  for  putting 
down  piracy,  yet  not  a  vessel-of-war  sent  us.  They  seem,  all  of 
them,  to  crowd  about  New  York  and  Boston,  where  they  are 
quite  out  of  the  track  of  the  pirates  of  the  gulf.  This  should  be 
the  station  of  one  or  more,  if  wre  are  to  do  anything  efficiently. 
We  have  no  land-force  here  for  resistance  to  a  single  cruiser, 
which,  if  insolent,  or  defied,  might  boldly  enter  our  harbor,  and 
batter  the  town  about  our  ears,  an:!  we  scarce  able  to  bring  a 
gun  to  bear  upon  her,  or  to  marshal  the  smallest  battalion  in  our 
defence." 

"  Ah  !  luckily,  most  of  these  pirates  are  of  good  English  breed. 
They  devour  the  dons  only,  and  this  is  so  much  good  service  done 
to  the  colony." 

"  We  must  not  say  that,  Governor  Quarry,  regarding  the  ex 
isting  treaty  with  Spain,  and  our  orders  from  the  proprietors. 
This  last  affair  of  the  rover  Caivjit  —  the  destruction  of  the 
4  Maria  del  Occidente,' a  royal  vessel  —  has  made  the  matter  a 
very  serious  one,  and  compels  us  to  adopt  a  much  more  strict  and 
national  policy.  By-the-way,  should  you  not  make  proclamation 
of  the  tenor  of  your  last  instructions  against  piracy,  and  offer  a 
reward  for  the  apprehension  of  this  rover  Calvert  ?" 

"  There  were  no  policy  in  that.     With  neither  ships-of-war  nor 


126  THE    CASSIQUE    OP    KIAWAH. 

troops  in  hand,  we  ejuld  only  hope  to  effect  his  apprehension  by 
stratagem,  in  the  event  of  his  putting  into  our  port  again,  as  he 
has  boldly  done  before.  To  make  public  proclamation  of  what 
he  may  expect,  if  he  returns,  will  be  most  effectually  to  defeat 
our  own  object,  and  keep  him  off.  Our  true  policy  is  to  lie  low. 
keep  dark,  and  close  upon  him  when  he  least  expects  it." 

"  You  are  right.  That,  in  our  present  condition  of  weakness, 
is  the  only  course  we  can  adopt.  We  must  have  one  or  more 
men-of-war  cruising  on  this  station.  And  yet  this  rover  will  be 
more  than  a  match,  I  fear,  for  any  of  our  ships  single-handed. 
He  is  a  good  seaman  and  a  fearless  scoundrel.  The  circumstances 
of  that  savage  fight,  were  it  in  a  good  cause,  would  suffice  to  make 
him  a  hero.  I  confess  that  I  share  in  all  our  British  antipathy 
to  the  Spaniard,  and  in  all  our  admiration  of  the  hardy  valor  of 
our  Norman  breed ;  and  when  I  heard  the  particulars  of  that 
affair,  though  out  of  the  sanction  of  law,  I  rejoiced  that  the  an- 
jient  spirit  of  the  Drakes,  the  Raleighs,  the  Sandwiches,  and  Cav 
endishes,  was  not  extinct  among  our  seamen.  Had  we  in  our 
king's  ships  such  brave  fellows  to  command  as  this  rover  Calvert, 
Britain  would  never  be  mjule  ashamed  before  Spaniard,  or  French 
man,  or  Hollander.  But  it  is  your  courtiers,  sir,  who  play  the 
devil  with  our  marine.  Here  are  they,  men  of  the  land  alto 
gether,  too  frequently  taken  from  the  command  of  cavalry,  sent 
on  board  to  manage  ships  and  fleets  —  men  of  silk  and  filagree, 
who  do  not  know  a  ship's  stern  from  her  taffrail,  and  are  just 
as  likely  to  go  into  action  stern  foremost  as  head.  I  scarce  know 
one  of  them  now  in  command  in  America  whom  I  should  not 
dread  to  see,  yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  in  a  sea-fight  with  this 
'  Happy-go-Lucky.'  Our  brave  sea-dogs  have  given  place  to 
court-monkeys  and  the  powdend  popinjays  whose  only  merit 
seems  to  be  in  their  ready  adoption  of  all  the  frills  and  furbelows 
of  France." 

"  My  dear  cassique,  you  are  quite  too  severe  upon  our  maca- 
onies.  These  powdere-i  monkeys  will  fight." 

"  So  they  will.  But  we  need  conduct  as  well  as  valor,  and  we 
can  have  no  conduct  without  the  capacity,  and  this  depends  upon 
the  hard  school,  the  apprenticeship  of  seven  years,  which  trains 
them  to  the  use  of  every  faculty  and  every  art,  so  that  they  shall 
in  action  work  rather  by  will  and  intuition  than  by  thought.  It  is 


GLIMPSES    OF   THE    CASSIQUE.  127 

the  lack  of  these  that  has  made  us  succumb  to  Dutch,  French, 
and  Spaniard,  in  turn  ;  and  but  for  these  unlicensed  rovers,  who 
as>ert  the  manhood  of  the  nation  in  spite  of  its  laws,  the  honor  of 
Britain  would  too  frequently  lie  upon  a  puppy's  sleeve,  for  every 
daw  to  pluck  at.  I  would  it  were  that  the  British  crown  were 
honestly  at  war  with  France  and  Spain,  so  that  we  could  legiti 
mate  the  valor  of  these  cruisers,  and  appropriate  their  gallantry 
to  the  country's  honor.  As  it  is,  I  should  grieve  to  see  this  fellow 
Calvert  strung  up  to  the  gallows,  when,  as  a  mere  deed  of  valor, 
his  crime  would  rather  merit  star  and  garter.  But  we  must 
beware  how  we  mock  at  law.  Law  is  the  most  sacred  thing 
known  to  society.  The  moment  we  hold  it  in  irreverence,  that 
moment  we  open  all  the  floodgates  of  license,  and  Anarchy  pours 
in  her  conflicting  torrents  to  the  breaking  down  of  all  the  securi 
ties  that  keep  the  race  from  ruin." 

"  Ah !  true,  and  very  eloquently  spoken,  my  dear  cassique," 
answered  the  governor  languidly,  with  difficulty  suppressing  a 
yawn.  "  Law  is  a  very  important  matter  in  society.  We,  who 
hold  offices  of  such  high  function,  ought  never  to  forget  the  laws 
—  no!  Of  course,  we  must  bring  these  pirates  to  the  gallows  — 
this  fellow  Calvert  especially ;  though,  I  confess  with  you  I  should 
much  rather  see  him  commissioned  in  a  king's  cruiser,  and  doing 
a  still  larger  business  among  the  Spanish  galleons." 

Enough.  There  was  more  said ;  there  was  some  business  done 
between  the  parties.  Papers  were  exchanged  and  signed.  Money 
was  confided  to  his  excellency  by  the  cassique.  There  were  notes 
taken  touching  the  Westo  and  other  tribes  of  red  men  in  the  im 
mediate  precinct,  who  had  already  given  the  colony  some  trouble. 
But  we  do  not  care  to  state  more  than  absolutely  concerns  our 
narrative. 

The  cassique  of  Kiawah  took  his  departure,  and  the  governor 
suffered  Calvert  to  emerge  from  his  retreat. 


128  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

SHOWING   PROGRESS    BUT   NO    ACTION. 

"  We  must  bait  awhile, 

For  a  new  journey  —  pause  and  look  around, 
Ere  we  depart  anew  through  unknown  paths." 

"WELL,  my  dear  fellow,  you  hear  what  the  cassique  of  Kiawah 
has  to  say  in  regard  to  your  case.  You  see  that,  but  for  the  Span 
ish  influence  at  court,  we  should  have  no  trouble  at  the  hands  of 
public  opinion,  either  here  or  at  home.  You  have  the  popular 
sympathies.  Here,  were  the  citizens  alone  concerned,  you  might 
walk  the  streets  in  broad  daylight.  As  the  matter  stands,  you 
must  needs  be  cautious.  Our  honor,  my  dear  captain,  requires 
that  we  should  hang  you  up,  without  benefit  of  the  clergy,  should 
you  force  upon  us  the  knowledge  of  your  presence  !  And  there 
is  no  need  that  you  should  do  this.  You  are  not  one  of  those 
macaronies  who  insist  upon  their  proportions  being  seen  —  who 
are  never  satisfied  unless  they  can  spread  broad  tails,  peacock- 
fashion,  and  scream  aloud,  in  advance  of  their  approach,  the  claims 
that  they  possess  upon  public  admiration.  In  short,  my  dear  cap 
tain,  the  business  is  a  good  one  —  to  be  continued — with  only  that 
degree  of  modesty  which  forbears  to  trumpet  to  the  world  the 
extent  of  our  profits." 

"  I  see  —  I  see  !"  was  all  the  answer  Calvert  made  to  this  speech. 
He  proceeded  abruptly : — 

"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  this  cassique  of  Kiawah.  There 
was  something  in  his  voice  that  persuades  me  that  I  have  seen 
him  before.  What's  his  age  —  appearance  —  seeming?" 

"  Some  thirty-five  —  a  fine-looking  fellow  ;  not  unlike  yourself 
in  build,  though  not  quite  so  tall  —  say  five  feet  ten ;  and,  by-the- 
way,  it  struck  me,  when  we  spoke  of  him  before,  that  there  was  a 


SHOWING   PROGRESS   BUT   NO    ACTION.  129 

something  of  likeness  between  you  —  a  something,  I  know  not  ex 
actly  what,  in  the  cut  of  the  jib  —  pardon  me  the  nautical  compari 
son —  a  something  in  nose,  and  eyes,  and  mouth,  very  like  between 
you.  No  disparagement  in  the  comparison,  let  me  tell  you,  for 
our  cassique  has  quite  a  nobleman  look  and  bearing." 

"  His  voice  is  peculiar." 

"  Deep,  sonorous,  something  sad.  The  fact  is,  his  voice  makes 
me  think  that  he  has  a  thorn  somewhere  in  his  side  that  pricks 
keenly.  He's  one  of  those  restless  men,  for  ever  engaging  in 
something  new,  whom  I  always  suspect  of  some  secret  grief.  He 
is  feverishly  active;  works  at  all  sorts  of  schemes  —  never  stops 
work  —  and  is  somewhat  wild  in  his  choice  of  labor.  Why  the 
devil  should  he  work,  and  so  restlessly,  if  there  be  not  some  irking 
barb  in  his  vitals?  He  is  rich,  does  not  seem  to  value  money  — 
certainly  does  not  work  with  regard  to  the  money  profits ;  could 
live  at  ease,  enjoy  himself,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves,  if  he  pleased. 
Why  should  he  bother  himself  with  the  reform  of  Indians,  new 
experiments  in  culture,  introduction  of  large  stocks  into  the  coun 
try,  and  fine  varieties,  which  these  very  savages  will  be  sure  to 
slaughter  nightly  in  his  ranges  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  see  not  why  he  should  not  be  moved  by  philanthropy." 

The  governor  lifted  his  eyebrows  with  a  ludicrous  stare. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  that  sort  of  stuff  as  a  motive  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  insane  people." 

"  But  he's  none  of  your  insane  ones,  I  tell  you.  He's  devilish 
shrewd,  methodical,  calculating,  in  spite  of  all  his  nonsense  of 
philanthropy/' 

"  He  has  a  wife,  you  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  child." 

"  You  have  seen  her  ?" 

"  Yes  —  but  once,  on  her  first  arrival :  a  pale,  sad,  silent  looking 
woman." 

"  But  that  might  have  been  the  effects  of  the  sea-voyage." 

"  Hardly.  No  !  her  looks  are  habitually  sad,  they  tell  me,  who 
have  seen  more  of  her  than  I  have.  Middleton,  who  has  lands 
near  them,  and  sees  them  often,  made  the  same  remark  to  me. 
My  own  notion  is,  that  our  cassique  is  something  of  a  domestic 
tyrant.  He  is  certainly  the  man  to  make  himself  the  law  to  his 
own  household.  There  is  a  mother  along  with  them  —  mother  of 

6* 


130  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  lady — who  looks  as  if  she  had  a  tongue  in  her  head ;  carries 
an  eye  as  sharp  as  a  fiery  arrow ;  and  wears  just  the  look  of  one 
to  whom  rule  comes  naturally,  and  who  would  bear  no  tongue- 
music  not  of  her  own  making.  Between  the  two,  the  wife  seems 
destined  to  the  fate  of  the  tender  grain  between  the  upper  and 
nether  millstone." 

"  Does  she  ever  come  to  the  town  ?" 

"  Rarely." 

"Yet  lives  at  so  small  a  distance — not  twenty  miles,  I  think 
you  said?" 

"  Not  fifteen  !  Oh,  be  sure,  Major  Berkeley  is  lord  as  well  as 
cassique.  He  keeps  the  rein  tightly  within  his  own  hands,  and, 
so  far  as  his  wife  is  concerned,  needs  no  effort  to  do  so.  It  is 
otherwise,  I  fancy,  with  the  old  lady,  who,  I  suspect,  frequently 
catches  up  the  ribands,  and  puts  a  barb  into  the  leader.  But  we 
need  waste  no  more  words  upon  our  cassique.  He's  shrewd,  and 
sensible,  and  authoritative,  but  I  can  manage  him.  You  heard 
how  cleverly  I  threw  him  off,  when  he  would  have  had  me  make 
proclamation  of  the  reward  for  your  capture  ?" 

"Yes!  —  you  were  prompt,  and  the  reason  given  was  a  good 
one." 

"  Hushed  him  directly !  But  I  must  leave  you  now.  I  have 
to  see  some  of  our  Indian  traders,  who  are  about  setting  out  for 
the  Cherokees.  You  will  lie  perdu  for  awhile." 

"  Till  night,  when  I  must  go  forth  to  receive  a  cargo.  You 
shall  have  a  supply  of  fruits  to-night  for  the  table  of  your  lady." 

"And  she  will  have  the  honor  of  receiving  you  at  supper. 
Unfortunately,  with  this  vigilant  committee  on  the  watch,  she  will 
not  be  able  to  find  you  better  company.  You  must  be  as  little 
seen  as  possible." 

"  There  could  be  no  company  more  grateful  than  herself." 

"  Ah !  you  might  have  been  a  courtier,  captain." 

"Impossible!" 

"  Not  a  whit  of  it !  But  I  do  not  say  you  have  mistaken  you 
vocation.  I  only  wish  we  were  able  to  put  you  in  a  position  to 
combine  the  two — yours  and  mine!  But  we  are  in  alliance,  and 
that  is  next  to  it.  Now,  take  care  of  yourself.  There's  your 
retreat,  should  any  one  call.  And  you  will  find  good  liquors  in 
yonder  recess  —  Jamaica  for  your  fiery  moments,  Madeira  for 


SHOWING    PROGRESS   BUT   NO    ACTION.  131 

your  courtly  moods,  and  good  sedative  brown  stout  if  you  hap 
to  be  contemplative.  As  our  Saxons  were  wont  to  say,  '  Drink 
wael,  drink  hael,'  which  I  take  to  mean,  *  Drink  well,  and  long 
life  to  you,'  or  something  like  it.  Au  revoir  /" 

It  was  a  long  morning  to  Calvert,  unemployed  and  almost  un- 
companioned,  in  the  solitude  of  the  governor's  private  chamber. 
But  he  had  his  excellency  to  himself  over  a  bottle  of  Madeira 
after  dinner — the  latter  being  served  to  him  secretly  by  miladi 
herself,  who,  however,  could  give  the  rover  but  few  moments  of 
her  presence.  We  need  not  report  the  further  dialogues  that  day 
with  his  excellency.  Soon  as  night  set  in  fairly,  our  cruiser  sal 
lied  forth,  found  his  way  to  Franks'  quarters,  had  a  long  business 
talk  with  that  burly  personage,  and  the  two  went  forth  together  in 
the  direction  of  the  well-shadowed  lagune  where  the  boat  was 
expected.  But  as  our  captain  did  not  linger  here  very  long,  and 
as  he  is  expected  elsewhere,  let  us  turn  our  steps  in  a  new  quar 
ter,  where  we  shall  see  that  due  preparation  has  been  made  lor 
his  reception. 


132  THE    CA8SIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

MRS.    PERKINS    ANDERSON. 

"  There 's  still  a  place  at  the  board  for  all  of  us  : 
Go  forward  !  —  all  arc  masked." 

WE  are  wont  to  say,  with  no  great  sagacity,  that  the  world  is 
made  up  of  all  sorts  of  people.  We  know  that  it  takes  a  mon 
strous  variety  of  all  sorts  to  make  up  the  commonest  sort  of  world. 
Even  our  new  communities,  planted  in  the  wilderness,  on  the  edge 
of  heathen  lands,  must  have  their  castes,  their  classes,  their  shades, 
degrees,  and  inequalities.  Blackguards,  for  example,  are  a  neces 
sary  element,  one  of  the  most  necessary.  We  could  not  well  do 
without  them.  There  is  a  great  deal  -'  dirty  work  to  be  done  in 
new  communities  —  not  so  much,  perhaps,  as  in  old  ones  —  which 
requires  this  very  sort  of  agency.  In  the  new  communities,  we  need 
even  a  greater  degree  of  ruffianism  than  mere  blackguardism,  and 
are  always  sure  to  have  it.  Your  pioneer  population  are  of  this 
latter  order  in  large  proportion  ;  and  it  does  not  work  amiss,  and  is 
very  far  from  out  of  place,  when  you  reflect  upon  the  sort  of  work 
which  requires  to  be  done.  Your  fine,  nice,  polished,  smooth  gentry, 
never  become  pioneers,  never  explore,  never  have  enterprise,  never 
found  new  empires,  or  exhibit  those  masculine  traits  which  alone 
grapple  with  lions  and  hydras,  and  cleanse  Augean  stables !  It 
needs  for  this  a  rough,  unlicked  sort  of  manhood,  the  muscle  of 
which  is  never  restrainable  by  morocco  slippers  and  soft  kid  gloves 
Your  ancient  Hellenes,  Pelasgians,  Etrurians,  and  what  not,  were 
blackguards  and  ruffians  at  the  beginning,  just  like  ours  —  though 
they  fined  down  so  beautifully,  at  last,  into  model  poets,  philoso 
phers,  and  statesmen.  Your  sturdy  old  Romans,  who  first  drove 
their  stakes  into  the  Seven  hills,  were  admirable  scamps,  every 
man  of  them,  to  whom  robbery  was  a  glorious  sort  of  manly  exer- 


MRS.    PERKINS    ANDERSON. 

cise,  and  rape  only  a  pleasant  step  upward  —  the  first  great  stride 
made  —  to  a  most  wonderful  civilization  !  Smith's  people,  when 
he  founded  Jamestown,  were  great  rapscallions  ;  and  the  puritans, 
shod  with  holiness,  though  covered  with  hypocrisy,  were  the  most 
atrocious  barbarians  that  ever  cut  throats,  bought  scalps,  burned 
witches,  pilloried  quakers,  and  sold  the  women  and  children  of  the 
red  princes  into  slavery,  after  they  had  butchered  their  papas  and 
husbands !  And  all  these  bold  ruffians  and  blackguards,  if  you 
believe  them,  do  their  dirty  work  for  the  glory  of  some  God  or 
other  —  Jupiter  or  Jehovah  —  it  matters  not  much  which  to 
them  !  This  is  a  necessary  fiction  of  all  society  at  its  first  begin 
nings. 

And,  even  as  you  see,  where  the  tiger  rages,  and  the  snake 
crawls,  and  the  frog  hops,  and  the  obscene  birds  prey  on  garbage, 
the  lacquered  butterfly  flickering  in  air,  and  hear  the  plaintive 
cooing  of  innocent  doves,  and  forget  yourselves  in  the  spontaneous 
gushes  of  song  from  gay,  glad  birds  of  the  sunshine  —  so,  in  soci 
ety,  even  where  the  ruffians  and  the  blackguards  most  congre 
gate,  you  happen  upon  choice  and  generous  spirits,  brave  master 
minds  of  men,  gentle  as  well  as  brave ;  and  sweet  ministers  of 
love  in  the  guise  of  innocent  women ;  and  gaudy  butterflies  of 
fashion  ;  macaronies,  dandies,  flirts,  and  harlots  ;  all  breathing  one 
physical  atmosphere,  though  all  at  odds  ;  removed  from  commun 
ion  of  moral  by  thousand  leagues  of  gulf  and  desert  in  society ! 

And  as  new  society,  when  a  mere  offshoot  from  an  old,  seeks 
always  to  emulate  the  mother-circle,  so  you  may  take  for  granted 
that,  however  new,  the  infant  community  will  show  you  the  same 
moral  aspects  precisely  which  are  most  apparent  in  the  old.  The 
fashion  of  the  garments  may  be  more  stale,  but  the  soul  of  the 
wearer  will  be  of  the  same  ancient  type.  There  will  be  less  pol 
ish  among  the  would-be  fine ;  less  learning  among  the  would-be 
wise  ;  less  grace  among  the  fashionable ;  and  less  scruple,  exteri 
orly,  among  the  ruffianly  and  scampish.  A  course  of  training,  in 
a  growing  community,  will,  however,  gradually  bring  up  the  stand 
ards  of  the  ambitious  ;  the  fashionables  will  refine  ;  and  the  scamps 
and  outlaws  will  adopt  garments  of  greater  cleanliness  and  more 
pacific  appearance  —  disguising  with  hypocrisy  the  vicious  quali 
ties  which  it  is  not  yet  their  profit  to  abandon,  or  in  their  power 
to  overcome.  This  is  the  tribute  which  they  will  pay  to  the  grow- 


134  THE    CASSIQUE    OP   KIAWAH. 

ing  virtues  of  the  social  sphere,  which  they  still  in  some  degree 
pollute. 

Now,  we  have  already  hinted  to  you  that,  in  our  Lumble  little 
colony  on  the  banks  of  the  Cooper  and  the  Ashley,  even  at  this 
early  period,  in  less  than  thirty  years  from  its  first  foundation,  we 
have  our  castes  and  classes  —  our  orders  of  nobility — our  aristoc 
racies —  our  fashionables  —  and  what  nots  !  The  patent  nobility 
—  palatines,  landgraves,  cassiques,  barons  —  are  such,  of  course, 
by  law.  They  are  the  legitimates.  Nobody  questions  their  right 
to  place.  The  landgrave's  or  cassique's  carriage  stops  the  way, 
but  no  plebeian  tongue  cries  aloud  !  The  fashionables  follow  close 
upon  the  heels  of  these  —  wealthy  parvenues  —  who,  if  they  can 
keep  and  transmit  their  wealth  to  another  generation,  raise  them 
to  a  prescriptive  class  also ;  and  these  are  your  noble  commoners. 
This  is  a  history.  It  is  the  history  in  Carolina. 

Now,  dear  friends,  do  not  be  surprised  when  we  tell  you  that, 
next  to  our  patent  nobility,  the  highest  order  was  that  of  the  In 
dian  traders.  The  Indian  traders  of  1684,  and  down  thence  to 
1770,  ranked  second  to  the  local  noblesse.  They  did  a.  flourish 
ing  business ;  they  ushered  in  the  first  merchants.  They  were 
bold  adventurers,  chiefly  of  the  class  called  Scotch-Irish,  who  pos 
sessed  a  hardy  enterprise,  great  personal  courage ;  were  shrewd, 
intelligent,  and  cautious ;  not  learned,  but  possessed  of  mother- 
wit  ;  were  greedy  of  gain,  and  ready  to  risk  life  upon  it ;  but  am 
bitious  of  social  position,  and  not  unwilling  to  peril  for  it  that 
which  was  more  precious  than  life,  money  !  They  aimed  af  some 
thing  (and  this  is  a  right  ambition)  of  social  position  for  themselves 
and  their  descendants.  They  preceded  and  paved  the  way  for  a 
bold  and  liberal  commercial  enterprise,  for  which  they  made  the 
forests  furnish  the  materiel.  The  Indian  trade,  which  had  already 
begun  to  extend  to  the  remote  regions  of  the  Choctaws  and  Chiek- 
asaws,  seven  hundred  miles  from  Charleston,  as  well  as  to  the 
nearer  country  of  the  Muscoghees,  Cherokees,  and  Floridia/is — 
in  other  words,  on  every  hand  —  was  a  greatly  profitable  one. 
The  simple  red  man  could  be  won  by  a  knife,  a  hatchet,  a  bell,  a 
medal,  a  tin  pan,  or  a  copper  kettle,  to  exchange  the  choicest  furs 
and  skins  with  his  white  brother  from  the  East.  So  profitable 
was  the  business,  that  the  governors  of  the  colony,  and  the  chief 
people,  were  fain  to  participate  in  the  trade ;  and  it  was  rather 


MRS.    PERKINS    ANDERSON.  135 

with  the  view  to  this  trade  that  treaties  were  made  with  the  red 
men,  followed  by  nominal  purchases  of  that  territory,  for  which 
the  red  men  themselves  could  make  no  title,  and  which  they  dared 
n  •?'.  attempt  to  occupy.  The  whites  bought  immunity,  rather  than 
land. 

Now,  while  (  ir  hands  are  in  for  it,  let  us  tell  you,  though  it  be 
episodical,  that  these  Indian  traders,  from  a  very  early  period, 
exercised  a  large  influence,  not  only  over  the  Indians,  but  in 
bringing  about  those  events  which  aifected  the  European  strug 
gles  for  ascendency  in  America.  Could  the  court  of  England 
have  cast  off,  as  so  many  worthless  old  slippers,  their  worthless 
courtiers  to  whom  they  confided  most  of  the  colonial  governments 
in  America,  and  given  their  trusts  chiefly  to  these  Scotch  or 
Scoto-Irish  adventurers,  thousands  of  lives  would  have  been  saved 
from  butchery,  millions  of  dollars  kept  in  the  treasury,  and  the 
miseries  which  belong  to  the  caprices  of  an  uncertain  Indian  war 
upon  a  wild  frontier  would  have  been  escaped.  The  French 
would,  moreover,  have  been  beaten  out  of  the  country  almost  as 
soon  as  they  appeared  in  it. 

It  was  in  vain  that  these  bold,  red-headed  adventurers  wrote, 
and  memorialized,  and  undertook  to  teach,  the  silken  courtiers  to 
whom  the  colonies  were  confided,  the  true  state  of  the  case  —  the 
true  nature  of  the  red  men  —  the  processes  by  which  to  win  their 
hearts  or  to  subdue  their  arms.  It  was  in  vain  that  these  traders 
showed  them,  by  frequent  examples,  how  peace  was  to  be  made, 
and  war  carried  on ;  for  they  traversed  the  Indian  country  with 
little  danger  to  themselves  —  avowed  that  they  knew  no  danger, 
and  never  suffered  harm,  till  the  blunders  of  the  governors  made 
the  white  race  absolutely  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  the  savage. 
These  white  adventurers  were  found  ready  and  capable  to  raise 
an  Indian  force,  in  the  heart  of  Choctaw  and  Chickasaw  settle 
ments —  to  lead  the  red  men  successfully  against  the  French  on 
the  Alabama,  the  Tombeckbe,  and  the  Meschacebe — capable  of  a 
patriotism  which  could  prompt  them  to  use  their  stock  in  trade  as 
presents  to  subsidize  the  savages  and  reconcile  them,  when  their 
blood  was  boiling  for  war,  and  when  the  young  warriors  had  al 
ready  struck  the  tomahawk  in  the  painted  tree.  Neither  example 
nor  exhortation  availed  ;  and  most  of  the  bloodshed  along  the  fron 
tiers  was  due  to  the  gross  incompetence  of  the  white  authorities — to 


136  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

their  vanity,  love  of  show,  insolence,  and  ignorance,  which  led  them 
to  outrage  the  red  men  with  scorn  and  insist,  and  then  to  recoil, 
like  tirnid  children,  at  the  warwhoop  and  the  painted  warrior  whom 
they  had  aroused,  without  preparing  for  the  presence  which  they 
conjured  —  incapable  of  wisdom,  strength,  or  courage,  when  they 
had  themselves  provoked  the  strife !  This  much  for  the  Indian 
traders,  whom  we  must  not  suffer  to  be  disparaged  by  a  presenta 
tion  of  the  simple  idea  of  trade  in  their  connection.  On  this  trade 
they  perilled  life,  and  in  its  prosecution  they  exercised  a  firm  will, 
a  noble  courage,  an  energy,  vigilance,  caution,  and  shrewd  inge 
nuity,  which  endowed  them  finally  with  a  capital  of  character 
such  as  few  educational  institutions  of  the  civilized  world  could 
possibly  impart ;  and  they  thus  raised  trade  to  the  dignity  of  wat 
and  statesmanship  —  to  a  moral  status  which,  per  se,  it  never  could 
assert. 

Such  were  these  traders  from  the  beginning.  In  1684,  their 
number  was  comparatively  small.  It  grew  rapidly,  however,  far 
in  proportion  beyond  the  growth  of  the  colonies.  Between  1700 
and  1770,  they  constituted  something  like  a  small  army.  But 
their  profits  were  less  than  in  the  early  period  of  which  we 
write. 

Perkins  Anderson  was  one  of  the  most  prosperous  of  these  In 
dian  traders  at  this  time  (1684).  The  governors  of  Carolina  had, 
severally,  a  sort  of  secret  partnership  with  Perkins  Anderson  for 
the  profits  of  this  trade.  They  conciliated  Perkins  Anderson. 
He,  Perkins,  was  not  unwilling  to  be  conciliated.  The  governor 
got  his  profits.  The  furs  and  skins  came  down  from  the  interior, 
consigned  to  him  or  to  his  agent ;  and,  in  the  benevolence  of  his 
heart,  thus  softened  by  certain  quarterly  profits,  the  governor  low 
ered  his  social  dignity,  and  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  graciously 
welcomed  in  the  parlor  and  at  the  parties  of  Lady  Quarry,  wife 
of  his  excellency  the  governor.  Of  course,  Perkins  was  not  dis 
pleased  with  this  recognition  of  his  wife ;  but,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  he  would  not  have  cared  a  button  though  a  lady  of  quality 
never  once  looked  on  the  lady  of  the  Indian  trader.  He  was  too 
sedulous  in  pursuit  of  the  main  chance,  to  give  much  heed  to  the 
butterfly  enjoyments  of  your  tripping,  gay  citizens. 

Far  otherwise  with  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  She  was  just  the 
creature  for  it  — to  whom  such  a  life  had  become  a  sort  of  neces- 


MRS.    PERKINS   ANDERSON.  137 

Bity.  She  had  graduated  for  society  as  an  Edinburgh  mantua- 
maker,  or  milliner,  and  in  this  capacity  Perkins  had  picked  her 
up.  She  was  the  very  person  to  know  something  about  irsss, 
and  to  love  it.  Her  costume  always  came  from  London.  She 
&ad  th.2  first  advices  of  the  last  fashions.  She  set  the  mode  on 
Ashley  river,  just  one  hundred  and  seventy  years  age  !  "We 
should  surely  venerate  her  memory. 

She  had  a  laudable  ambition  to  shine  in  society.  She  visited 
the  governor's  lady ;  and,  though  not  exactly  acknowledged  by 
the  Mortons,  the  Middletons,  the  Berkeleys,  and  other  folks  who 
claimed  to  have  been  burn  in  the  shadow  of  the  purple,  if  not 
absolutely  within  its  folds,  they  were  yet  compelled  to  hear  of  her 
as  a  sort  of  rival  for  the  social  rule  in  Charleston.  She  was  at 
home  everywhere  in  the  immediate  precincts  of  the  town.  It  was 
only  at  the  baronial  seats  that  she  had  no  entree.  Whether  she 
cared  for  it  or  not  is  hardly  a  matter  of  concern.  She  made  the 
most  of  her  own  province.  She  gave  balls  and  parties,  and  had 
her  evenings,  just  as  such  people  have  them  now.  She  knew, 
too,  the  value  of  a  supper  in  conciliating  affections  and  melting 
granitic  pride  and  moral,  and  her  suppers  were  a  model  and  a 
proverb  all  over  town.  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  herself  a 
model. 

Poor  thing !  we  must  not  blame  her.  Perkins  was  absent  some 
ten  months  every  year,  and,  when  at  home,  was  not  exigent  as  a 
husband.  He  had  his  consolations,  and  why  should  she  not  have 
hers  ?  He  had  a  wife  in  each  of  the  tribes  —  one  at  Euchee,  an 
other  at  Echotee,  another  at  Tuckabatchie,  another  at  Highwis- 
see,  and  he  acknowledged  to  half  a  dozen  more  —  lamenting,  to 
his  Caucasian  dame,  the  painful  necessity  which  required  that, 
for  his  safety,  he  should  take  a  wife  in  every  tribe  with  which 
he  traded.  And  there  may  have  been  some  truth  in  his  story. 
It  is  very  certain  that,  among  the  red  chiefs,  sooner  than  a 
white  brother  should  go  without  a  wife,  each  would  give  his 
own ;  and  that,  too,  with  a  cheerful  resignation  which  was  almost 
Christian ! 

And  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the  cheerful  resignation  with  which 
Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  submitted  to  these  dispensations  of  love, 
made  on  behalf  of  her  husband ;  beautiful  the  meekness  with 
which  she  bore  his  annual  ten  months'  absence ;  delightful  to 


138  THE   CASSETTE    OF   KIAWAH. 

note  how  readily  she  received  all  his  pleas,  excuses,  and  pre 
tences  ;  admirable  to  see  how  happily  she  contrived  to  console 
herself  under  her  privation,  by  cheerfully  yielding  herself  to 
the  claims  of  society  on  every  side.  Verily,  she  was  a  model 
woman. 

And  now  let  us  show  the  uses  we  have  for  Mrs.  Perkins  An 
derson.  She  has  just  returned  from  a  drive  that  afternoon  — "  up 
the  path"  —  that  being  the  fashionable  route  in  those  primitive 
days,  when  we  had  no  "  Battery."  But  it  was  a  glorious  drive, 
notwithstanding  that  it  lay  very  much  within  the  original  grace 
of  Nature,  The  road  had  been  simply  cut  through  a  forest  of 
live  oaks  and  other  noble  trees,  counting  their  lives  by  centuries. 
Their  branches  met  and  interweaved  across  the  road,  festooned 
with  moss,  and  spanned  the  space  between,  making  a  grand  Gothic 
archway,  shutting  out  the  sun.  As  old  Archdale  (himself  a  land 
grave)  wrote,  at  a  later  period  —  "No  prince  in  Europe  hath  such 
an  avenue  in  all  his  dominions." 

Well,  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  had  just  returned  from  her  even 
ing  drive,  in  her  stately,  lumbering  English  carriage  of  that  date, 
drawn  by  two  noble  grays.  Her  carriage  bore  a  lion  for  its  crest, 
though  what  Perkins  or  herself  had  ever  to  do  with  lions  nobody 
could  say.  Her  livery  was  green  and  gold.  Her  style  was  ad 
mitted  to  be  exactly  the  thing.  The  whole  establishment  was 
what  the  English  fine-vulgar  would  call  "  a  dem'd  elegant  turn 
out  !" 

Well,  she  had  returned  from  her  drive,  had  left  the  carriage  — 
was  entering  her  dwelling  —  one  of  the  best  in  town,  somewhere 
near  the  corner  of  Church  and  Tradd  streets,  as  we  have  them 
now — when  she  found  our  "ancient  mariner,"  Franks,  awaiting 
her  at  the  door.  At  a  signal,  he  followed  her  into  the  house, 
and  might  have  said  a  dozen  words — scarcely  more  —  when  he 
might  have  been  seen  backing  out  of  the  dwelling,  making  most 
formal  bows  until  he  was  fairly  in  the  street,  and  the  door  shut 
upon  him. 

These  dozen  words  were  of  peculiar  potency.  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson  remained  at  home  that  night — yet  received  no  com 
pany.  Externally,  the  house  was  in  utter  darkness.  The  ser 
vants  were  allowed  to  depart,  having  a  holyday  from  the  mistress 
in  her  amiable  mood ;  and,  at  a  certain  hour,  the  door  has 


MRS.    PERKINS   ANDERSON. 

been  opened  by  the  fair  lady  herself,  to  admit  two  sturdy  seamen, 
bearing  a  basket  of  such  dimensions,  that  we  can  recall  no  fellow 
to  it,  save  that  which  enabled  Falstaff  to  escape  the  keen  scrutiny 
and  cudgel  of  good  Master  Ford.  This  was  filled  with  fruits  of 
Cuba,  then  rare  in  the  market.  It  may  have  been  an  hour  later, 
when  the  door  opened  again,  and  this  tirns  to  admit  our  rover, 
the  gallant  Captain  Calvert. 


1-iO  THE   CA3SIQUE   OF  KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

TENDER    SYMPATHIES    AND    SITUATIONS. 

"  To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain  ; 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why; 
To  sport  an  hour  with  Beauty's  chain, 

Then  fling  it  idly  by"  — 
This  is  love,  according  to  Moore, 
Over  which  nobody  needs  to  cry ! 

MRS.  PERKINS  ANDERSON  herself,  clad  in  her  happiest  style  — 
bracelets  on  her  arms,  brilliants  on  bosom  and  finger  —  received 
our  rover  at  the  entrance,  and  hastily  drew  him  into  the  dwelling. 
They  walked  together  through  a  dark  passage,  her  hands  grasping 
his  affectionately,  and  leading  him  on  to  an  apartment  in  the  rear 
of  the  building,  which,  the  shutters  all  being  carefully  closed,  was 
brilliantly  lighted  with  wax-candles.  The  room  was,  for  that  day 
and  region,  a  handsomely-furnished  one.  London  had  supplied 
some  of  its  best  styles  of  furniture  in  the  Elizabethan  fashion  — 
great-backed  mahogany  chairs,  massive,  such  as  might  befit  a  cor 
onation  ;  and  massive  tables ;  and  a  tall  clock  in  the  corner,  large 
enough  for  the  halls  of  Gog  and  Magog ;  and  great  oval  mirrors 
against  the  walls,  environed  with  richly-gilded  frames,  beautifully 
carved  with  leaves  of  oak,  interspersed  with  golden  acorns.  From 
these  samples,  suppose  the  rest  of  the  catalogue.  A  luxurious 
chair  received  the  lady,  and  another  of  the  same  pattern,  wheeled 
in  front  of  her,  was  occupied  by  our  captain  of  the  "  Happy-go- 
Lucky." 

The  lady  was  frank  and  joyous,  and  glowed  apparently  with 
the  happiness  she  felt  at  the  presence  of  her  visiter. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  my  dear  captain  !  This  is  a 
real  pleasure.  You  have  been  so  long  absent !  But  let  me  thank 
you  at  once  for  that  beautiful  present  of  fruits.  They  are  deli- 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES   AND   SITUATIONS.  141 

cuus.  But,  to  see  you  again,  and  looking  so  well,  makes  me  at 
once  forget  the  long  time  of  expectation  —  the  weariness  of  wait 
ing.  You  know  I  count  you  as  among  my  dearest  friends,  and 
will  believe  me  when  I  assure  you  that  I  have  looked  and  longed 
often  for  the  pleasure  of  this  meeting." 

And  the  lady  again  took  the  hands  of  our  captain,  and  smiled 
most  sweetly  in  his  very  eyes. 

"  You  are  kind,"  he  said,  "  kind  as  ever.  And  I  am  rejoiced 
to  find  that  a  gay  life,  constant  society,  and  increase  of  wealth, 
have  not  made  you  forgetful  of  old  friends." 

"  How  should  they  ?  It  is  they  who  make  life  precious  ;  show 
the  uses  of  wealth  ;  give  the  charm  to  society.  Now  that  you  are 
come,  we  shall  have  a  merry  time  of  it.  We  have,  indeed,  a  gay 
circle  here  —  many  very  clever  and  interesting  people ;  we  con 
stantly  meet,  and  there  is  quite  a  struggle  already  as  to  who  shall 
give  the  gayest  parties." 

"  You  are  aware  that  I  am  forbidden  to  go  into  society  —  par 
ities  especially  ?" 

"  Forbidden  !  how  —  why  ?" 

"  My  health !" 

"Pshaw!  what  nonsense !  You  were  never  looking  better — 
never  more  handsome !" 

"  Thank  you.  Perhaps  I  should  say  my  life,  rather  than  health, 
depends  upon  my  not  being  seen  in  public." 

"  Ah !  I  understand  you.  Franks  warned  me  to  be  cautious, 
and  to  send  the  servants  off.  But,  my  dear  captain,  are  not  these 
precautions  very  ridiculous  ?  What  have  you  to  fear  ?  what  have 
you  been  doing  ?" 

"  Nothing  worse  than  I  have  done  before.  But  the  court  of 
England  has  suddenly  grown  virtuous,  and  sensitive  to  the  royal 
pledges ;  and  the  crown  has  taught  the  proprietary  lords  to  trans 
late  '  privateer'  into  '  pirate,'  and  especially  to  consider  one  Cap 
tain  Calvert  a  particular  offender  of  the  latter  class  —  simply  for 
not  pulling  down  the  British  jack  in  obedience  to  the  shot  of  a 
royal  packet  of  Castile." 

"  And  why  should  you  ?  What !  the  British  flag  go  down  be 
fore  a  Spaniard  ?  I  hope  you  sunk  her  !" 

"  The  very  thing  I  did.  But  our  royal  sovereign  does  not  share 
the  spirit  of  his  people,  and  the  Spanish  embassador  has  had  influ- 


142  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

ence  enougt  to  get  me  outlawed.  So  that,  my  dear  Mrs.  An 
derson,  I  am  in  your  power :  you  see  how  much  I  rely  upon 
your  friendship !  You  have  only  to  report  my  presence  here  to 
any  of  the  council,  and  you  win  a  purse  of  five  hundred  pounds, 
and  consign  me  to  dungeon  and  scaffold." 

"  Ah !  with  my  help,  you  shall  have  no  worse  dungeon  than 
my  dwelling  —  its  most  sacred  chamber.  But  what  fools!  Well, 
one  thing  is  certain :  our  people  will  never  quarrel  with  you  for 
knocking  the  Spaniard  on  the  head.  You  are  quite  safe  with 
us—" 

"  Only  so  long  as  I  keep  unseen.  I  must  make  a  cloak  of  the 
night  while  in  Charleston,  and  lie  close  by  day.  I  might  be  safe 
with  your  people  ;  but  I  am  warned,  by  those  who  know,  that  it 
will  not  do  any  longer  to  appear  publicly  among  them.  Youi 
privy  council  are  already  on  the  watch  to  snare  and  take  me ; 
and,  did  they  suspect  my  presence  here  now,  you  would  soon  hear 
of  the  proclamation,  and  this  would  be  followed  by  the  search." 

"  I  am  so  sorry !  I  should  so  delight  to  have  you  at  my  party 
on  Thursday  night !  What  are  we  to  do  1  I  can  hardly  give 
you  up." 

"I  must  forego  the  pleasure.     But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can  do." 

«  Well  ?" 

"  I  have  my  wife  with  me." 

"  What !  that  little  Mexican  creature  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  but  one." 

This  was  said  with  the  faintest  effort  at  a  smile.  The  speech 
reminded  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  of  the  superior  advantages  pos 
sessed  by  her  own  husband  as  an  Indian  trader.  And  she  sighed, 
as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  sad  fortunes  of  the  rover.  But,  in  a 
moment  after,  she  said  — 

"  And  she  is  here,  with  you  ?" 

"  With  your  consent,  she  will  be  with  you  to-morrow  night. 
On  the  strength  of  your  frequent  invitations,  I  have  brought  her 
with  me  this  voyage.  She  begs  your  acceptance  of  these  trifles." 

He  handed  the  lady  a  packet  and  a  case.  She  opened  both 
with  eagerness.  The  first  contained  a  shawl  —  one  of  those  ex 
quisite  fabrics  of  the  East  which  might  be  spread  over  a  ch amber 
as  a  carpet,  yet  could  be  crushed  into  the  compass  of  a  walnut- 
shell  ;  the  case,  as  it  was  opened,  flashed  out  in  a  blaze  from  a 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES   AND   SITUATIONS.  143 

cluster  of  precious  gems  —  their  spiritual  brightness,  so  glowing 
and  ethereal,  seeming  to  need,  for  confinement,  that  beautiful  set 
ting,  in  golden  filagree,  with  which  Mexican  art,  always  wonder 
ful  in  the  execution  of  such  works,  had  contrived  to  secure  and 
illustrate  the  gems ;  the  setting  itself  ingeniously  devising  that  a 
golden  serpent,  with  mosaics  on  his  back,  should  "  wear  a  precious 
jewel  in  its  head"  —  should  gleam  with  two  precious  jewels  for  its 
eyes  —  and,  twined  about  the  fair  neck  of  beauty,  should  rest  its 
gorgeous  though  monstrous  head  upon  the  heaving  breast  of  whire 
below.  So  were  those  jewelled  birds,  that  were  meant  to  sparkle 
on  her  brow,  to  float  above  her  hair,  or  to  perch  as  a  crest  upon 
the  bracelets  of  her  arm. 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  though  rich  and  accustomed  to  show, 
was  absolutely  silenced  by  the  astonishing  beauty  and  evident 
value  of  the  gift.  When  she  did  speak  her  raptures,  it  was  only 
to  find  all  superlatives  wanting : — 

"  Superb  !  wonderful !  magnificent !  Oh,  how  beautiful !  I 
never  thought  that  there  could  be  such  exquisite  fabrics.  And 
wought  by  these  Mexicans  and  Spaniards  !  It  is  wonderful." 

Like  a  sagacious  woman,  she  never  once  asked  our  rover  how 
he  got  them  —  by  what  invasion  of  Spanish  towns  ;  by  what  fierce 
fight  with  galleons  or  frigates  of  Castile  and  Leon.  But  she  made 
some  modest  hesitation  about  accepting  a  gift  so  costly. 

"  Consider  it  only  valuable  as  a  gift  of  love,  and  then,  the  more 
priceless,  the  more  it  becomes  us  to  welcome  and  to  wear  it.  It 
is  such,  believe  me.  You  have  cheered  many  hours  of  my  soli 
tude,  Charlotte,  and  you  will  no  doubt  contribute  to  make  happy 
the  young  creature,  my  wife,  while  she  stays  with  you.  Suffer 
us  to  assure  you  in  this  manner  —  for  I  deal,  you  are  aware,  but 
little  in  professions  —  that  we  have  found  your  kindness  much 
more  precious  to  us  than  these  toys  can  ever  be  to  any  human 
heart." 

He  pushed  the  jewels  back  to  her  as  he  spoke,  and  she  silently 
gathered  them  into  the  case  and  laid  them  with  the  shawl  behind 
her.  Abruptly  then,  and  with  a  greater  degree  of  earnestness, 
she  said : — 

"  Your  tones  are  very  sad,  Harry.     Is  it  ever  to  be  thus  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so  !" 

«  No  content  ?" 


144  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Save  in  the  unrest  which,  so  long  as  life  lasts,  must  affcrd  me 
my  only  refuge  from  thought  and  disappointment." 

"  I  would  I  could  do  something,  Harry  Calvert,  to  make  you 
more  cheerful.  Can  I  do  nothing  ?  Is  the  heart  utterly  sealed  ? 
Is  there  to  be  no  freedom  for  it  ?  And  such  a  heart  as  yours ! 
Oh,  this  life  !  what  a  thing  of  contradictions ;  of  ill-assorted  asso 
ciations  ;  of  ties  that  are  bonds,  not  links ;  and  connections  that 
only  chafe,  and  do  not  cheer  !  Ah,  Harry,  what  a  life  is  mine ! 
I  am  compelled  to  be  frivolous,  to  escape  the  snares  of  feeling. 
I  could  love !  I  could  surrender  myself  wholly  to  the  one  affec- 
Jion,  could  I  be  sure  of  its  faith ;  but  as  I  am — " 

"  Charlotte,  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  happiness.  It  comes, 
or  it  does  not  come.  It  obeys  no  regulation.  It  is  secured  by  no 
plan,  no  wisdom,  no  fine  scheme  of  thought,  no  human  policy  or 
persuasion.  The  very  caprices  of  life  forbid  the  idea  of  happi 
ness.  We  are  to  undergo  an  ordeal  —  to  work  out  a  certain  re 
sult-  -about  which  we  ourselves  have  no  certainty.  We  are  in 
the  hands  of  a  power  in  which  our  hands  are  powerless  —  which 
heeds  little  how  we  hope,  or  sigh,  or  dream,  or  suffer.  We  must 
keep  our  hearts  silent ;  stifle  what  we  can ;  resign,  as  readily  as 
possible,  what  we  can  ;  indulge  in  few  expectations  ;  leave  all  that 
we  can  to  the  Power  whose  will  is  absolute,  and  before  which  all 
our  purposes  shrink  into  nothingness.  I  am  not  a  fatalist,  when 
I  believe  in  the  Providence 

*  That  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew  them  how  we  will.' 

I  have  erred  like  the  rest,  but  I  am  not  getting  obdurate.  I  have 
simply  survived  hope  —  at  least  in  all  things  in  this  miserable 
state  of  ordeal  which  we  call  life." 

"  Alas  !  what  a  confession  !  Survived  hope  !  Why,  Harry, 
even  I,  who  claim  to  be  disappointed  also,  have  not  survived 
hope." 

"  Have  you  weighed  it  ?" 

"  No,  Heaven  forbid  !  I  simply  let  myself  alone,  and  employ 
the  day  as  profitably  for  pleasure  as  I  can." 

"  Why,  so  do  I,  and  so  does  every  man,  woman,  and  child. 
But  who  can  see  far  enough  ahead  to  resolve  that  the  pleasure  of 
to-day  will  not  be  the  pain  of  to-morrow  ?  Besides,  we  are  be 
ings  of  different  grades.  Some  swim  and  sing  through  life,  touch- 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES   AND    SITUATIONS.  145 

ing  the  sands  lightly,  as  some  little  bird  or  insect ;  others,  with 
sterner  will,  or  heavier  wing,  dive  deep,  soar  high,  move  rapidly, 
and  with  too  much  earnestness,  not  to  bruise  themselves  perpetu 
ally  in  the  superior  violence  of  their  effort.  I  am  of  this  nature. 
It  is  an  enviable  condition,  that  of  a  lightness  which  takes  nothing 
seriously  —  which  may  be  bird  or  butterfly,  satisfied  with  a  day's 
exertion,  and  singing  or  soaring  only  for  its  little  hour." 

"  And  you  hold  me  one  of  these  creatures,  Harry  ?" 

"  No—" 

"  You  do,  Harry  Calvert  —  you  do  !  But  you  know  me  not. 
I  live  in  the  world  —  I  must  live  in  it  —  since  I  have  hardly  a 
home.  What  is  here?  Beauty,  you  will  say  —  grandeur  even, 
for  such  a  region  —  and  wealth.  I  have  luxuries  —  food  —  trap 
pings —  servants  —  in  abundance.  But,  Harry,  need  I  say  to  you 
that  I  am  here  in  a  solitude  ?  I  am  alone  —  no  home  —  for  I  have 
no  companionship." 

Our  cruiser  showed  himself  a  little  uneasy.  He  rose  and  paced 
the  room.  The  lady  was  growing  sentimental.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes  as  she  drew  this  melancholy  picture  of  human  desolation 
in  the  case  of  one  who  flourished  at  all  the  balls  of  the  season. 
And  there  was  that  empressement  in  her  manner  which  seemed 
likely  to  compel  his  sympathies  to  a  participation  in  her  griefs. 
He  did  not  answer  her,  but  silently  strode  the  apartment  to  and 
fro,  never  looking  up.  She  rose  and  followed  him,  laid  her  hands 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  continued,  even  more  earnestly — 

"  You  do  not  believe  me,  Harry  !" 

"  Why  not  ?  Who  can  know  where  the  serpent  coils  —  under 
what  flower  ?  who  say  how  the  heart  writhes  with  secret  tortures, 
wearing  yet  a  face  wreathed  in  smiles  ?  I  must  not  judge  of  your 
case,  having  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  my  own.  But  why  speak 
of  either  ?  Can  they  be  amended  ?" 

"  Alas !  I  know  not.  O  Harry  Calvert,  I  so  long  for  sympa- 
iny!  This  terrible  isolation  —  this  waste  of  feeling  —  this  con 
sciousness  that  our  hearts  give  forth  their  waters,  as  fountains  in 
the  desert,  with  none  to  see,  or  seek,  or  taste !" 

"  But  the  very  fact  that  they  flow  proves  life  —  not  unprofitable 
life.  In  their  own  fullness  they  find  content." 

"  Ah  !  but  they  finally  cease  to  flow,  finding  that  they  flow  in 
vain.  The  fountain  chokes  at  last." 

7 


146  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Unless  an  angel  comes  down  at  night  to  trouble  it." 

"  Ah,  would  'the  angel  come  !  But  why  should  this  waste  be  ? 
Why  should  the  heart  long  in  vain  for  the  very  nourishment 
which  is  its  only  need  and  craving  ?  Why,  of  all  these  myriads 
whom  we  could  love,  and  whose  love  one  might  deserve  and  re 
quite,  should  we  still  sigh  in  loneliness,  thirsting  for  living  waters 
of  love  in  vain  ?" 

It  must  not  be  denied  that  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  a  very 
interesting  woman.  Not  exactly  handsome  —  scarcely  pretty  — 
she  was  yet  interesting.  She  had  a  face  which  sparkled  with  ani 
mation  and  intelligence ;  she  was  short,  but  not  bulky  of  figure, 
and  she  dressed,  as  may  be  conjectured,  to  a  marvel.  And  now, 
as  she  indulges  in  the  pathetic  mood,  she  may  reasonably  imagine 
that  she  must  be  irresistible.  Certainly  nothing  can  be  more  un 
natural,  in  the  case  of  a  brave  and  gallant  gentleman,  than  to 
refuse  his  sympathies  when  Beauty  weeps  —  and  when  that  Beauty 
still  keeps  her  youth,  and  when  those  tears  are  enforced  by  elo 
quent  pleadings  of  a  warm  fancy  and  a  somewhat  copious  thought ! 
For,  though  an  ignorant  woman,  so  far  as  early  education  is  con 
cerned —  ignorant  of  letters  and  science,  and  scarcely  awakened 
to  the  deep  truths  that  lie  in  art  —  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  had  so 
lived,  and  was  so  susceptible  of  education,  could  so  rapidly  absorb 
from  life  and  society,  and  had  such  natural  gifts,  that,  upon  occa 
sion,  she  could  rise  to  eloquence. 

She  was  destined  to  waste  it  on  the  present  occasion.  The 
eyes  of  Harry  Calvert  settled  upon  her  with  a  keen  and  searching 
glance.  He  was  no  sentimentalist.  His  deep,  earnest  tones  were 
in  unison  with  the  stern,  cold,  troublesome  query  which  he  put. 

"  Of  what,  really,  do  you  complain,  Mrs.  Anderson  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  not,  Harry,  use  an  address  so  formal.  We  have  known 
each  other  too  long — have  been  tried  friends  too  long — for  this  \ 
call  me,  I  entreat  you,  as  before  —  call  me  Charlotte." 

"  Well,  Charlotte,  of  what  do  you  complain  ?" 

"  Of  bonds  —  of  fetters  !" 

He  was  dull  of  comprehension. 

"  Of  what  nature  ?" 

"  I  am  the  wife  of  one  who  loves  me  not." 

The  question  that  followed  was  a  somewhat  annoying  one : — 
Do  you  love  him  ?" 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES   AND   SITUATIONS.  147 

"  No !"  cried  the  lady,  grasping  the  arm  of  the  inquirer,  and 
looking  intently  into  his  face  —  "  no,  Harry,  how  should  I  ?  In 
what  should  he  interest  me?  How  should  such  as  he  control 
affections  such  as  mine?  He,  bent  only  on  the  acquisition  of 
money — cold,  selfish,  indifferent — leaving  me  lonely — " 

"  Does  he  interest  you  when  here  ?" 

"No!" 

"  Then  you  are  quits ;  for  it  is  clear,  Charlotte,  that  you  do 
not  interest  him,  or  he  would  remain,  in  compliance  with  your 
wishes." 

The  lady's  cheeks  flushed  up  to  her  eyes. 

"  But,  Harry,  do  you  hold  me  incapable  of  interest  in  the  eyes 
of  a  gentleman  ?" 

"  Far  from  it !  At  all  events,  you  always  interest  me,  and 
never  more  than  when  I  think  you  erring  and  unreasonable,  as  I 
hold  you  now." 

"  Ah,  Harry,  that  speech  should  only  be  made  by  a  lover." 

How  very  sweetly  and  tenderly  the  lady  smiled  as  she  uttered 
this  courteous  reproach  !  But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on 
the  face  of  our  cruiser.  He  had  long  before  sounded  the  lady's 
shallows.  She  belongs  to  a  well-known  school,  who  use  senti 
ment,  perhaps  unconsciously  to  themselves,  only  as  a  cover  for 
passion.  She  probably  deceived  herself.  We  will  suppose  so, 
through  charity.  Many  do,  no  doubt,  deceive  themselves  through 
some  such  medium  as  sentiment.  The  class  is  somewhat  increas 
ing  in  modern  times,  since  gradually  society  has  begun  to  shake 
off  very  generally  the  sense  of  duty.  All  idle  women,  having  a 
certain  amount  of  smartness,  and  no  children  to  attend  to,  and  no 
household  duties  to  perform,  or  devolving  all  these  upon  servants, 
are  necessarily  in  this  very  danger.  There  is  a  gradual  growth 
of  morbid  sentimentality,  which  deals  freely  in  this  sort  of  sophis 
tication,  but  which  has  its  real  root  only  in  passion.  Our  rover 
is  himself  a  man  of  passion,  but  not  a  rover  in  this  respect.  His 
passion  is  true,  and  therefore  concentrative.  All  passions  which 
lack  in  concentrativeness  are  morbid,  diseased,  unresting,  and  ca 
pricious,  as  those  of  a  ground-sparrow.  You  may  console  the 
broken  heart  in  an  hour,  by  giving  exercise  to  the  blood.  Cap 
tain  Calvert  was  not  pleased  to  echo  the  lady's  sentimentalities  — 
nay,  he  was  rather  lisposed  to  probe  them. 


148  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Charlotte,"  he  said  coolly,  but  in  the  deepest  tones  of  his  sono 
rous  voice,  "I  repeat  the  question  —  of  what  do  you  complain?" 

"  Have  I  not  said  of  isolation,  abandonment,  indifference,  neg 
lect,  on  the  part  of  him  who  ought  to  love  me  ?" 

"  But  you  have  just  as  distinctly  admitted  that  you  do  not  love 
him." 

"  Because  he  neglects  me." 

"  But,  Charlotte,  did  you  ever  love  him  ?  Think,  now,  before 
you  speak.  You  knew  him  before  you  married.  He  was  always 
the  same  person  —  a  person  nowise  attractive,  externally,  to  a 
woman  ;  shrewd  and  persevering,  but  not  intellectual ;  nowise  re 
fined  ;  totally  inelegant ;  coarse  of  manner  as  of  structure,  and  just 
as  cold,  no  doubt,  and  indifferent  always.  All  this,  Charlotte,  I 
have  from  your  own  report.  Did  you  ever  love  this  man  ?  What 
was  he,  or  had  he,  to  win  a  woman's  love  —  your  love  ?" 

"  Alas  !  I  was  a  mere  girl,  Harry." 

"  A  pretty  old  one,"  was  Harry's  secret  suggestion,  but  he  did 
rot  say  it. 

"You  mean,  by  that,  that  you  deceived  yourself  in  the  belief 
that  you  did  love  him  ?" 

"  Yes,"  very  faintly. 

"  But,  by  the  same  process,  you  deceived  him  as  well  as  your 
self.  May  not  the  secret  of  his  indifference  be  found  in  the  fact 
that  he  has  discovered  your  secret?  Now,  Charlotte,  he  was 
much  more  likely  to  have  loved  you  than  you  him.  You  had  at 
tractions  for  the  eyes  of  men.  You  had  grace,  vivacity,  delicacy, 
and  intelligence.  You  had  —  and  have  —  such  charms  as  might 
satisfy  any  man  of  proper  taste  and  feelings.  I  think  it  probable 
that  Perkins  Anderson  had  always  a  tenderer  regard  for  you  than 
you  for  him.  Nay,  I  think  he  still  has.  What  does  his  life  show 
you  ?  He  goes  off  into  the  wilderness,  leaving  you  to  loneliness 
and  isolation.  Yet  he  leaves  you  in  abundance ;  he  provides  for 
you  sumptuously  before  he  departs ;  he  raises  you  to  a  social  state 
which  affords  him  individually  no  pleasure ;  he  is  pleased  to  know 
that  you  shine  in  society  —  is  pleased  so  to  crown  your  home  with 
delights,  and  your  person  with  ornaments,  as  that  you  shall  neces 
sarily  shine  in  society.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  while  he  denies 
himself  your  society,  denies  himself  all  these  pleasures  which  he 
leaves  to  you  ;  he  penetrates  the  wilderness ;  he  perils  his  life 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES   AND   SITUATIONS,  149 

among  the  savages ;  his  life  is  one  of  daily  toil  and  nightly  anxie 
ties  :  and  these  toils  are  taken,  and  these  anxieties  borne,  you  say, 
in  the  pursuit  of  gain  —  but  the  gain  enures  to  you!  He  sends 
his  treasures  home  to  you ;  and,  should  he  perish  to-morrow,  he 
has  already  put  you  in  possession  of  independence.  Do  you  doubt 
that  this  has  been  an  object  of  his  care  —  knowing  that  his  life  is 
at  perpetual  hazard  —  that  he  yet  finds  his  consolation  in  the  fact 
that  he  has  made  ample  provision  for  you  ? — " 

"  As  if  money  constituted  the  ample  provisions  of  life  !"  the  lady 
said,  somewhat  scornfully  and  impatiently  —  "  as  if  life  had  noth 
ing  else  for  which  to  live  !  —  as  if  mere  bread,  and  meat,  and  fine 
linen,  could  console  a  starving  heart,  nourish  a  withering  affection, 
requite  and  refresh  the  thirsting  soul  that  seeks  for  love  or  noth 
ing  !  O  Harry  Calvert,  is  it  from  your  lips  that  I  hear  such 
approval  of  the  most  mercenary  aims  of  life  ?" 

"  Charlotte,"  said  our  rover,  "  I  like  you  too  well,  am  too  much 
your  friend,  to  suffer  you  to  fall  into  any  delusions,  either  as  re 
gards  yourself  or  me.  In  respect  to  myself,  it  will  be  safe  to  sup 
pose  that  I  have  no  sane  purpose  in  life.  I  peril  it,  for  gain,  you 
suppose  ;  but  I  fling  away  all  the  winnings  of  the  game.  My  life 
is  profligate ;  yet  there  is  no  passion  which  I  pursue  with  hope  or 
expectation.  If  you  will  know  it,  the  only  passion  which  I  ever 
entertained,  with  all  my  heart,  all  my  soul,  all  my  strength,  has 
foiled  and  mocked  me  ;  its  arrow  has  shot  into  my  soul,  and  left 
nothing  but  a  harrowing  venom,  that  keeps  me  from  sleep  as  it 
keeps  me  from  enjoyment.  My  energies  are  watchful  and  restless 
ever,  simply  because  my  hurts  allow  me  no  repose.  I  toil  and 
adventure,  not  for  gain — for  nothing,  briefly  —  but  because  I  dare 
not  hope  for  rest !" 

"  And  is  it  so,  Harry  Calvert  ?" 

"  It  is  so  !     And  you  ?" 

"  Ay,  what  of  me  ?" 

"  Your  unhappiness  is  more  the  result  of  the  absence  of  a  true 
care,  than  the  presence  of  any  earnest  anxieties." 

«  Oh,  Harry !" 

"  It  is  so  with  thousands.  You  must  not  talk  of  disappointed 
passions,  unless  you  can  assure  me  that  you  have  had  an  object, 
precious  to  all  your  affections ;  the  first  and  only  always  in  your 
thoughts ;  a  being  for  whom  you  could  die ;  for  whom  only  you 


150  THE    CARSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

would  care  to  live  —  before  I  can  suppose  you  to  be  the  sufferer 
which  you  persuade  yourself  you  are.  There  are  very  few  per 
sons  who  ever  meet  with  such  an  object.  A  blind  passion,  eager 
for  satisfaction,  will  make  —  does  make  —  this  object  for  itself; 
and  hence  the  disappointments  of  life  —  which  is  never  to  be  satis 
fied  with  lit  3,  simply  as  it  is  !  Men  and  women  marry,  half  the 
time,  through  restlessness  —  impatience  of  their  actual  condition  ; 
not  through  a  desire  for  happiness  —  for  this  is  an  object  which 
few  persons  seek.  They  seek  rather  the  gratification  of  a  desire 
—  seek  gold  —  seek  one  another  —  and,  would  seek  more  wisely, 
were  they  governed  in  their  search  always  by  some  honest  passion, 
having  an  object  in  its  aim  which  had  been  already  commended 
to  their  sympathies  and  confidence.  They  too  frequently  seek  in 
marriage  for  the  object,  not  for  the  object  in  marriage.  Some 
marry  for  bread  and  meat,  which,  having  them,  and  not  doubting 
that  they  will  continue  to  have  them,  they  persuade  themselves 
that  they  despise  ;  others  seek  show,  wealth,  an  establishment ;  oth 
ers  the  gratification  of  a  wanton  vanity,  or  a  still  more  wanton  lust !" 

"  Hush,  Captain  Calvert  —  hush  !     You  are  quite  too  free." 

"  You  must  not  quarrel  with  truth.  It  is  so  seldom  you  can 
get  it.  Well !  disappointment  waits  on  most,  and  all  that  remains 
to  us  is  to  economize  the  wreck  of  our  affections  ;  to  make  the 
most  of  our  mistakes  ;  to  resign  ourselves,  as  patiently  as  possible, 
to  the  fates  which  we  have  made.  Believe  me,  you  have  as  yet 
suffered  no  disappointment  of  the  heart,  having  not  yet  fastened 
all  its  hopes  upon  some  ideal  creature,  who  has  first  warmed  your 
imagination  and  controlled  your  sympathies  through  your  own 
conception  of  a  model  husband." 

"  Ah,  but  I  have,  Harry !"  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  look  of  the 
tenderest  interest  —  "ah,  but  I  have  !" 

"  It  is  too  late,  now,  Charlotte,  either  for  that  being  or  yourself, 
supposing  him  to  be  still  in  existence." 

"  He  is  !  he  is  !" 

"  Better,  then,  for  your  sake,  that  he  were  dead !" 

"Oh!  why  — why?     Dead!" 

"  You  can  never  be  the  same  to  him  as  at  the  time  when  you 
were  unmarried  to  another." 

"  Ah,  but  I  did  not  know  him  then.  It  was  only  when  I  came 
to  know  him,  that  I  found  my  present  bonds  were  fetters." 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES    AND    SITUATIONS.  151 

"  Still  too  late  for  both,  since  you  can  no  longer  bring  him  the 
tribute  of  a  virgin  heart.  How  should  he  believe  you  ?  how  per 
suade  himself  that  the  same  fancies  which  deluded  you  to  wed 
another,  will  not,  in  their  caprice,  beguile  you  from  him  ?" 
"  Never,  never,  Harry  Calvert !  I  could  die  for  him  !" 
11  Better  live  for  yourself"  he  answered,  gloomily.  "  Charlotte 
Anderson,  let  us  not  be  children.  Let  us  be  friends.  Suffer  me 
to  be  yours.  As  a  friend,  I  should  be  faithful  to  you  to  the  last. 
As  a  lover — nay,  were  I  even  that  particular  person  whom  you 
had  made  your  ideal  —  which  is,  of  course,  impossible  —  I  should 
fly  your  presence  as  I  would  the  pestilence !" 

A  deep  sigh  from  the  lady,  who  sank  back  in  her  chair  at  the 
same  moment,  responded  to  his  speech.  Her  eyes  were  gushing 
with  tears.  He  took  her  hand,  and  in  softer  accents  said,  touching 
his  own  breast : — 

"Judge  of  the  wreck  here,  Charlotte,  when  I  tell  you  that  this 
young  wife,  whom  I  propose  to  bring  to  you,  is  one  of  the  love 
liest  creatures  whom  your  eyes  erer  beheld.  She  brought  me 
wealth,  and  such  devotion  as  it  was  possible  for  such  a  child-soul 
as  hers  to  bring :  yet  would  I  now,  a  thousand  times,  cheerfully 
give  up  life  itself,  to  restore  her  to  the  condition  —  the  child- 
place,  and  peace  of  mind,  in  which  I  found  her,  and  whence,  in 
one  of  the  phases  of  my  insanity,  I  woo  her  to  my  arms.  But  I 
can  neither  stab  her  with  this  truth,  nor  do  the  cowardice  of  sui 
cide.  It  is  no  reproach  to  her  charms  when  I  say  that  I  have  no 
joy  in  them  —  as,  at  the  same  time,  I  tell  you  there  are  no  charms 
for  me  in  life." 

"  Yet  she  is  a  beauty  ?" 

"  Yes  !     You  will  say  so  when  you  see  her." 

"  A  Mexican  beauty  ?" 

"  A  Spanish  beauty,  of  the  purest  blood." 

"  And  loves  you  ?" 

"I  think  so  —  as  far  as  so  infantile  a  nature  is  capable  of  love 
But  to  our  conception  of  that  master-passion  it  is  scarcely  in  hear 
power  to  rise.  She  is  a  creature  all  levity.  Give  her  crowds: 
she  will  live  in  a  ballroom  ;  will  dance  without  resting,  nightly— 
all  the  night ;  lov^s  glitter,  music,  show ;  loves  admiration,  gal 
lantry—" 

"  And  you  fear  not  to  trust  her  with  me  ?" 


152  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"Why  should  I  fear?" 

"  Here,  such  a  being  as  you  describe  her  will  have  admiration 
enough,  and  be  liable  to  a  thousand  temptations.  There  are 
younger  sons  of  courtiers  about  town  —  gallants  who  have  taken 
their  lessons  at  the  court  of  Charles,  and  boast  of  the  patronage 
of  the  duchess  of  Portsmouth.  They  are  handsome  fellows  — 
macaronies  —  dandies;  as  unscrupulous  as  handsome;  bold  and 
audacious  as  gallant ;  and  possessed  of  all  the  arts  which  are  so 
apt  to  ensnare  the  unsophisticated  female  heart.  Do  you  not  fear 
them  ?" 

"  No  !  In  the  very  unsophistication  of  Zulieme,  I  am  secure : 
she  is  secure.  Her  faith  in  me  assures  my  faith  in  her.  The 
very  sports  of  her  people,  in  which  she  has  been  trained,  are  an 
additional  security.  She  will  not  comprehend  the  language  of 
gallantry,  except  in  the  ear  of  her  vanity.  It  will  go  no  deeper. 
Her  heart  can  not  be  touched." 

"  She  speaks  our  language  ?" 

"After  a  fashion  —  brokenly,  but  prettily." 

"Well,  Harry,  I  will  do  for  her  all  I  can — though  I  am  not 
suffered  to  do  anything  for  her  husband !" 

"  You  will  do  for  me,  Charlotte,  when  you  do  for  her.  Franks 
will  bring  her  to  you  to-morrow  night.  And  now,  Charlotte,  God 
bless  you,  and  send  you  relief  from  this  unrest !  It  is  the  unrest 
that  properly  haunts  all  that  lack  an  object  —  that  lack  cares  and 
necessities.  If  you  had  children,  now — " 

"  Children  !  Heaven  forbid  —  and  by  him  !  Go,  Harry  Cal- 
vert  —  go  !  You  are  a  man  without  a  heart." 

"  Would  it  were  so,  Charlotte !  —  But  God  bless  you,  and 
make  you  wise  enough  to  lose  all  memories  which  are  trouble 
some  !" 

The  cavalier  was  gone.  The  lady  sank  back  with  a  sigh,  cov 
ering  her  face  with  her  hands.  We  must  not  ask  what  are  the 
thoughts  and  sorrows  of  one  who  has  no  cares.  But,  lest  the 
reader  should  suffer  too  much  anxiety,  from  what  he  has  seen 
of  her  present  state  of  feeling,  we  beg  to  mention  that,  in  ten 
minutes  after,  she  was  busily  engaged  locking  the  gorgeous  neck 
lace  which  Calvert  had  brought  her,  about  her  fair,  white  neck  ; 
trying  the  bracelets  upon  her  arms ;  weaving  the  diamonded  bird- 


TENDER   SYMPATHIES    AND    SITUATIONS.  158 

crests  in  her  hair;  and,  finally,  folding  the  delicate  shawl  tastefully 
about  her  shoulders,  while  she  walked  before  the  great  oval  mir 
rors,  watching  with  delight  the  beautiful  effects  produced  by  these 
fine  gifts. 

"  It  is  the  loveliest  shawl !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  reluctantly 
folded  it  away  in  its  original  case. 

7* 


154  THE   CASSIQUE   OF  KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    CUP THE    KISS  ! 

"  It  is  the  heart  that  consecrates  !    No  rite 
Is  sacred,  or  makes  sacred,  save  in  that 
Where  the  affections  minister,  and  Love 
With  whole  heart  hallows  as  the  rite  enjoins/' 

WHEN  Calvert  left  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  he  proceeded  *o  a 
meeting  with  Franks ;  and  the  two  together  took  their  way  to  the 
lagune  in  which  the  boats  of  the  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  were  wont 
to  seek  safe  harborage.  Two  of  them  had  arrived,  with  full  car 
goes,  which  were  transferred,  in  little  time,  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  seamen,  to  the  secret  warehouse  of  Master  Franks.  Among 
those  wrho  came  this  time  with  the  boats  was  Jack  Belcher,  with 
whom,  while  the  boats  were  unlading,  our  rover  had  a  long  pri 
vate  conference.  That  faithful  retainer  had  a  minute  and  inter 
esting  report  to  make.  There  were  circumstances  that  made  him 
uneasy.  He  reported  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  as  still  desperately 
attentive  to  the  fair  Zulieme ;  but  this  was  not  so  much  the  cause 
of  his  uneasiness.  They  had  their  dances,  as  usual,  and  the  rough 
Anglo-Saxon  was  not  by  any  means  reconciled,  by  the  frequency 
of  the  fandango,  to  the  familiarities  which  it  allowed.  But,  as  his 
superior  saw  nothing  in  this  to  cause  apprehension  or  displeasure, 
Belcher  forebore  reporting  fully  the  measure  of  his  indignation. 

But  there  were  more  serious  matters  of  suspicion,  if  not  of  mis 
conduct,  which  had  rendered  him  uneasy.  He  discovered,  or 
fancied  that  he  discovered,  that  the  said  lieutenant  discriminated, 
with  singular  partiality,  in  the  treatment  of  the  crew.  Some  of 
the  sailors  had  no  favor  shown  them.  To  others  he  was  specially 
indulgent ;  and,  with  certain  of  these  others,  Jack  Belcher  discov 
ered  that  the  lieutenant  was  in  frequent  conference,  privately,  in 
the  woods.  Some  of  these  men  were  occasionally  missing,  and 


THE   CUP  —  THE   KISS  !  155 

on  one  of  these  occasions,  one  of  the  boats  of  the  ship  was  missing 
also. 

Belcher  reported  the  lieutenant  as  arbitrary  in  a  degree  amount 
ing  to  tyranny,  giving  great  offence  to  the  sailors  whom  he  did 
not  favor.  He  himself  (Belcher),  though  not"  strictly  under  the 
authority  of  the  lieutenant,  as  the  private  attendant  and  body- 
servant  of  the  captain,  had  been  made  to  understand  that  he  was 
no  favorite,  and  would  be  subjected  to  his  regimen  as  soon  as  ever 
he  dared  indulge  in  authority  as  fully  as  he  evidently  desired.  ,It 
was  time,  according  to  Belcher's  opinion,  that  Captain  Calvert 
should  resume  the  command  of  the  ship. 

This  tallied  well  with  the  captain's  purpose. 

"I  shall  go  up  to-night,  Jack.  You  will  remain  here  with 
Franks,  lying  close,  and  submitting  to  all  his  precautions." 

To  what  Belcher  said  of  Molyneaux,  Calvert  only  responded 
with  contemptuous  indignation  in  regard  to  the  course  of  that 
individual. 

"  The  vain  blockhead  !  Now  will  he  not  be  content  till  he  gets 
knocked  upon  the  head.  It  is  a  pity,  too,  for  the  fellow  is  as 
brave  as  he  is  impudent,  and  as  good  a  seaman  as  he  is  a  puppy 
in  his  uniform.  But,  I  have  sounded  him,  and  know  just  where 
his  oars  catch  crabs.  Never  you  trouble  yourself  about  him, 
Jack ;  but  give  me  the  names  of  the  fellows  with  whom  he  con 
sorts.  Some  of  them  I  suspect  already.  Where  do  you  suppose 
the  missing  boat  went,  when  she  was  taken  off?" 

"To  town,  sir  —  where  else?" 

"  Ah  !  was  she  so  long  gone  ?" 

"  Eighteen  hours  at  the  least." 

"  Indeed  !  We  must  fathom  that.  Such  visits  might  seriously 
endanger  us.  But  enough  now.  Let  us  rejoin  Franks." 

When  they  had  returned  to  the  lagune,  they  ound  that  the 
landing  of  the  goods  had  all  been  effected. 

"  Franks,"  said  Calvert,  drawing  him  aside,  "  have  you  that 
stout  hackney  that  I  used  to  ride  when  I  was  here  last  ?" 

4  Yes,  sir,  and  as  stout  a  beast  as  ever." 

1  You  must  get  him  across  the  Ashley  for  me  by  to-morrow, 
sometime.  Who  have  you  now  at  Oldtown  ?" 

"  Gowdey.  You  remember  him—  a  queer  fellow,.  He  lives 
on  the  creek,  above  the  town." 


156  THE   CASSIQUE   OF  KIAWAH. 

"  Is  he  trusty  ?" 

"  True  as  steel." 

"  Anybody  else  at  Oldtown  now  ?" 

"  Not  a  soul  besides,  that  I  know  of.  The  Indians  have  burnt 
down  most  of  the  houses,  and  the  few  left  are  in  ruins.  Gowdey 
has  a  log-cabin :  it  was  one  of  the  old  blocks  just  on  the  outskirts. 
Fort  Sayle,  they, called  it." 

"  I  remember.  Have  the  horse  in  Gowdey's  hands  to-morrow. 
Do  not  spare  any  money.  Be  sure  of  it !  I  must  not  be  disap 
pointed." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  sir.'" 

"  Jack  Belcher  will  remain  with  you,  and  help  to  sort  and  dis 
tribute  the  goods.  He  knows  all  about  it,  better  than  either  of 
us.  I  leave  you,  for  the  present.  To-morrow  night,  you  will 
receive  my  wife,  and  convey  her  carefully  to  Mrs.  Perkins  Ander 
son.  She  is  prepared  to  welcome  her.  It  is  barely  possible  that 
I  shall  come  myself.  But  let  it  matter  nothing  if  I  do  not.  You 
and  Jack  can  manage  everything  now." 

And  the  captain  of  the  cruiser  stepped  into  one  of  the  boats, 
and  gave  the  word  for  both  to  move.  They  rowed  out  of  the 
creek,  but  hoisted  sail  when  they  reached  the  river  —  the  wind 
being  favorable  for  its  ascent  —  going  half  the  way  "  wing-and- 
wing."  It  was  about  two  in  the  morning  when  the  cry  was  heard 
from  the  watchman  of  the  ship,  "  Boat,  ahoy !"  And  the  answer 
was  made  in  the  deep  voice  of  the  captain,  who  soon  scrambled 
up  on  deck,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  officer  of  the  watch. 

This  happened  to  be  Lieutenant  Eckles,  whose  welcome,  by- 
the-way,  appeared  to  be  a  somewhat  confused  one,  arising  from  a 
certain  fact  which  he  chanced  to  know,  and  from  which  he  appre 
hended  evil  to  his  colleague,  the  first  lieutenant.  But,  as  Calvert 
did  not  seem  to  notice  the  confusion  of  Eckles,  we  must  not  antici 
pate.  The  latter,  however,  showed  some  eagerness  to  hurry  be 
low,  when  he  had  spoken  with  the  captain ;  but  our  rover  arrested 
him  promptly. 

*'  Keep  your  post,  sir :  you  do  not  propose  that  I  shall  take  the 
watch  off  your  hands  !" 

Thus  speaking,  he  passed  below  himself,  and,  entering  his  cabin 
suddenly,  was  confounded,  not  only  to  find  the  lights  burning,  but 
to  discover  the  fair  Zulieme  sitting  up,  and  engaged,  with  Lieu- 


THE    CUP — THE    KISS  !  157 

tenant  Molyneaux,  at  a  Spanish  game  of  cards,  which  the  beaute 
ous  lady  was  teaching  the  ambitious  Briton.  They  had  heard 
nothing  of  his  arrival — rtoo  much  absorbed,  we  may  suppose,  and 
the  vessel  being  head  out  from  the  creek  where  she  ^y,  and  the 
captain  entering  from  forward.  A  decanter  of  Spanish  wine  stood 
upon  the  table,  and  it  was  evident  that  Molyneaux  had  been  im 
bibing  pleasure,  if  not  instruction,  in  more  ways  than  one.  It  was 
a  natural  impulse  of  guilt  that  made  him  si  art  to  his  feet,  in  some 
confusion,  at  the  sight  of  his  superior.  He  was  otherwise  bold 
enough  to  face  the  devil. 

"  What  do  you  here,  sir,"  demanded  the  captain,  "  in  my  private 
cabin?" 

Zulieme  answered,  with  equal  coolness  and  simplicity  — 

"  I  asked  him  in,  Harry,  to  play  with  me." 

"  He  should  have  known  better  than  to  have  accepted  your  in 
vitation.  This  is  no  place  for  him,  and  he  knows  it.  But  that  I 
know  you  so  well,  Zulieme,  I  had  cut  his  throat  and  yours  too. 
Away,  sir,  to  your  own  quarters,  and  see  that  you  do  not  repeat 
this  offence  at  any  invitation  !" 

The  lieutenant  glared  savagely  upon  the  speaker  as  he  passed 
out,  but  prudence  prevailed  with  him  for  once,  and  he  was  silent. 
Calvert  saw  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  simply  muttered  to 
himself — 

"  The  time  is  not  yet  come  !" 

Meanwhile,  Zulieme  had  sprung  up  also,  her  black  eyes  flash 
ing  with  indignation,  and  her  little  figure  trembling  with  the  same 
feeliir  g. 

"  And  you  come,  Harry,  only  to  be  a  brute  !  Pray,  what's  the 
harm  of  Molyneaux  coming  to  play  with  me  —  and  when  I  askeJ 
him,  too?" 

**  Harm  !  —  But  what's  the  use  ?     She  can  never  understand  !'* 

"What's  that  I  can't  understand,  Harry?" 

"  That  among  our  brute  English,  my  lieutenant  has  no  business, 
at  midnight,  in  the  chamber  of  my  wife.  And  I  repeat  to  you 
that,  were  you  any  but  the  woman  that  you  are,  I  should  have 
not  only  cut  Mr.  Molyneaux'  throat,  but  probably  yours  also." 

"  You  horrid  wretch  !  And  why  do  n't  you  do  it  ?  And  why 
am  I  different  from  other  women,  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  can 't  teach  you,  Zulieme.     But,  you  are. 


158  THE   CASSTQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

This  person,  Molyneaux,  knew  that  he  was  doing  wrong,  though 
you  did  not.  Does  it  not  strike  you  as  possible,  Zulieme,  that 
there  are  men  who  would  like  to  persuade  you  to  do  wrong  ?" 

"And  for  what?  But  that's  always  the  way !  Everything's 
wrong  with  you  savage  English.  But  what  made  you  stay  away 
so  long  ?  You  've  been  gone  more  than  five  days." 

"  It  might  as  well  have  been  five  months.  You  have  spent  the 
time  happily  enough." 

"  No  !  I  've  only  danced  and  sung,  and  run  in  the  woods  till  I 
was  tired,  and  scared  too,  for  Mr.  Molyneaux  said  that  the  red 
Indians  were  all  about." 

"  You  were  more  safe  in  their  hands  than  in  his,  silly  one ! 
But  I  am  about  to  remove  you  from  the  danger  of  the  red  Indians, 
and  possibly  from  other  dangers.  Do  you  still  wish  to  go  to 
Charleston  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear  Harry,  is  it  true  ?     Will  you  carry  me  ?" 

"  Or  send  you  !     You  shall  go  to-morrow  night,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh,  why  not  to-night  ?"  And  she  leaped  up  and  threw  her 
arms  round  the  neck  of  the  sombre  man,  and  kissed  him ;  then 
whirled  about,  and  pirouetted,  and  threw  herself  into  the  intoxica 
ting  raptures  of  her  most  voluptuous  Mexican  dances,  vainly  en 
treating  him,  in  dumb  show,  to  take  the  floor. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  countenance  that  saddened  as  he  gazed. 
The  savage  severity  of  face  had  passed  off,  and  his  look  was  now 
of  a  subdued  melancholy.  It  finally  melted  into  a  faint  smile, 
which  her  quick  eyes  eagerly  detected. 

"  Ah,  Harry,  now  you  look  good-natured  again.  You  will  re 
ally  take  me  with  you  to  Charleston  ?" 

"  Either  take  you  or  send  you.  I  have  made  arrangements  for 
your  reception  there.  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  an  old  acquaint 
ance  of  mine,  has  invited  you.  She  is  quite  a  fine,  fashionable 
lady,  who  sees  a  great  deal  of  company,  and  lives  in  the  best  style. 
Under  her  chaperonage,  you  will  enjoy  the  best  opportunity  of 
seeing  life  in  Charleston." 

"And  is  she  young,  and  gay,  and  pretty,  and  rich,  Harry? 
Does  she  give  balls  and  dancing-parties  ?" 

"Ay,  she  does  little  else,  and  you  will  be  in  your  element 
But  I  must  warn  you  that,  in  Charleston,  you  are  not  to  be 
known  as  Zulieme  Calvert  —  not  to  be  known  as  my  wife  —  better 


THE   CUP  —  THE   KISS  !  159 

no*  be  known  as  a  wife  at  all.     My  name  is  under  ban  in  Charles 
ton,     A  price  is  set  upon  my  head." 

"  I  won't  go,  Harry  —  I  won't !  Those  brute  English  !  Oh, 
no!  Let's  go  anywhere  else.  Let's  go  from 'em  —  go  to  Ha 
vana,  Harry  —  that 's  a  good  Harry  !" 

"  Alas !  Zulieme,  a  still  greater  price  is  set  upon  my  head  in 
Havana.  Here,  they  will  pay  for  it  but  in  pounds  and  dollars ; 
there,  in  doubloons  and  joes." 

"  Why,  Harry,  what's  to  be  done  ?  Better  go  back  to  Darien," 
she  answered,  in  temporary  consternation. 

"  Nay,  Zulieme,  you  will  do  as  I  counsel.  I  told  you  repeat 
edly,  before,  what  were  the  dangers  of  my  life,  everywhere ;  but 
you  are  a  bad  listener.  You  were  angry  with  me  because  I  did 
not  give  you  an  opportunity  at  the  festas  of  Havana,  though  you 
saw  how  our  vessel  had  to  skulk  along  the  coast,  and  only  peep 
into  some  of  the  Cuban  harbors.  And,  though  I  showed  you  the 
garote  at  Havana,  and  told  you  that  five  hundred  ounces  would 
be  paid  by  the  governor  to  any  one  who  would  help  him  to  adjust 
its  collar  to  my  neck,  you  heard  of  nothing  but  the  bull-fights  of 
*  holy  week'  —  the  processions  and  the  fandangos  which  were  to 
follow.  As  we  entered  the  harbor  of  Charleston,  I  showed  you 
ihe  gallows,  and  you  were  then  told  that  here  the  governor  was 
prepared  to  give  five  hundred  pounds  to  him  who  should  help  him 
to  rope  me  by  the  throat  to  its  accursed  beams ;  yet  you  had  pre 
viously  heard  of  the  gay  people  of  Charleston,  and  you  gave  no 
heed  to  the  hanging  of  your  husband.  Well,  I  have  arranged  for 
your  enjoying  yourself  in  Charleston  without  respect  to  me." 

"  But  we  will  not  go  there,  Harry,  or  to  Havana  either,  or  any 
where,  if  they  hate  you,  Harry.  We'll  go  back  to  the  isthmus, 
Harry,  where  we  can  dance  as  we  please,  and  no  garote  and  no 
gallows  for  either  you  or  me.  O  Harry,  you  talk  as  if  I  wished 
you  were  dead  !  You  brute,  Harry  !" 

"  Nay,  Zulieme,  let  it  relieve  you  when  I  tell  you  that,  in  going 
to  Charleston,  you  do  not  increase  my  embarrassments  in  any 
way.  We  shall  not  be  seen  together,  or  known  in  connection. 
You  shall  be  introduced,  not  as  my  wife,  nor  as  any  wife,  but  as  a 
young  lady  of  Mexican  family,  friends  to  Mr.  Perkins  Anderson, 
the  famous  Indian  trader ;  and  you  are  to  become  the  protege  of 
his  wife.  Now,  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  is  a  very  fine  woman* 


160  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

gay  as  a  lark  and  frisky  as  a  kitten,  who  has  only  one  weakness 
against  which  I  would  warn  you.  She  fancies,  all  the  while,  that 
she  is  wretched  as  a  ground-mole,  and  gloomy  as  an  wl  that 
knows  not  where  to  find  a  supper.  If  she  tells  you  that  she  is 
ready  to  die  —  to  commit  suicide  —  you  have  only  to  execute 
some  of  your  most  dashing  dances  in  her  sight,  or  to  admire  her 
new  dresses,  and  she  will  forget  all  her  sorrows.  Bating  this 
weakness,  she  is  a  fine  woman  enough.  Some  think  her  very 
pretty.  She  is  very  showy,  very  smart  as  well  as  showy,  and 
sometimes  converses  very  brilliantly." 

"  Ah,  Harry  !  have  you  long  known  her  ?" 

tl  Yes,  several  years." 

"  Ah  !  she  is  your  <  Olive,'  then  !" 

He  started  up,  gazed  at  the  infantile  speaker  very  sternly  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said : — 

"  Zulieme,  I  have  begged  you  never  more  to  name  to  me  that 
name.  Do  not,  if  you  would  not  vex  as  well  as  pain  me." 

"  But,  Harry — " 

"  Not  a  word  more  !" 

"  Oh,  you  savage,  Harry  ! — " 

"  Enough,  Zulieme,  that  I  try  to  content  you  with  those  things 
which  satisfy  your  heart.  In  Charleston  you  will  enjoy  yourself, 
especially  under  the  patronage  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  For 
her  sake,  as  well  as  mine,  my  name  must  be  suppressed.  She 
will  find  you  another.  I  shall  see  you  occasionally.  Now,  get 
you  to  bed,  and  beware  how  you  again  invite  other  men  into  the 
privacies  of  my  chamber.  Remember  that  there  are  things,  purely 
domestic,  which  the  Englishman,  differing  from  almost  all  other 
people,  holds  to  be  sacred.  You,  of  all  your  race,  will  be  the 
last  to  understand  this ;  but  let  it  suffice  you  that  /  tell  you  it  is 
so !  An  Englishman's  chamber  is  sacred,  Zulieme ;  his  weapons 
are  sacred ;  the  cup  from  which  he  drinks  is  sacred  !  See  —  this 
was  to  me  an  especially  consecrated  cup  !"  —  taking  up  one  which 
stood  upon  the  table,  half-filled  with  wine  —  a  silver  cup,  richly 
chased —  just  such  a  cup  as  loving  godmothers  give  to  children. 
..."  It  was  the  gift  of  a  grandmother  to  a  mother,  of  a  mother  to 
me.  Yet  has  it  been  polluted  this  night  by  the  lips  of  one  who, 
even  while  he  drank,  meditated  ill  to  you  and  me.  It  shall  never 
pollute  my  lips  again  !" 


THE   CUP  —  THE    KISS  !  161 

And  he  crushed  the  delicate  vessel,  with  all  its  grouped  vines 
and  fanciful  figures,  out  of  all  shape,  into  a  mass,  by  a  single 
nervous  grasp  of  his  powerful  hand  ! 

"  Why,  Harry,  are  you  mad  1  What  harm  has  the  cup  done, 
and  it  was  so  pretty  ?" 

"  It  is  pretty  in  iny  eyes  no  more  —  it  is  no  more  sweet !  Now 
understand.  Zulieme,  that  we  English  hold  domestic  things  to  be 
sacred ;  we  hold  our  chambers  sacred  —  our  wives ;  but  if  they 
become  polluted  by  other  hands  or  lips,  we  crush  them,  however 
beautiful  or  sweet  once  —  we  crush  them  into  nothingness,  even 
as  I  crush  this  cup!  Go  —  now!  Sleep,  dream,  and  wake,  if 
you  please,  to  song  and  dance ;  but,  remember,  that  the  most  sa 
cred  thing,  once  polluted,  becomes  hateful  to  the  sight  and  feelings 
of  the  Englishman." 

"  You  spiteful,  awful  Harry  !"  she  cried,  half-laughing,  half- 
sobbing,  as  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  She  would  have 
kissed  him,  but  he  put  her  away,  and  hurriedly  left  the  cabin  — 
murmuring,  sotto  voce,  as  he  did  so : — 

"  I  know  not  —  I  have  half  a  doubt  —  no  matter  how  innocent 
she  is  —  that  this  impudent  fellow  has  polluted  her  lips,  even  as 
he  has  polluted  my  cup.  I  could  suffer  her  kiss  as  a  thoughtless 
and  innocent  child  ;  but  no  —  not  after  his  !" 

Zulieme  called  after  him,  but  he  did  not  heed,  perhaps  did  not 
hear  her.  For  a  moment  she  appeared  disposed  to  follow  him ; 
but  —  "  No,  no  !"  she  said,  half-aloud  ;  "  he  is  in  his  cross  fit  now.'* 
And,  undressing  herself,  she  went  to  bed,  and  in  a  little  while  had 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 


162  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAU. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

SETTLING   ACCOUNTS. 

"  Cassius.  —  Must  I  endure  all  this  ? 
Brutus.  —  Ay !  more  !     Fret  till  your  proud  heart  break  1" 

SHAKESPEARE. 

"  But  there  shall  come  an  hour, 

When  Vengeance  shall  repay  the  wrongs  of  Power !" 

"AND  now,"  muttered  Calvert,  "for  Lieutenant  Molyneaux !" 

That  officer  was  on  deck.  He  had  relieved  Eckles,  and  the 
latter  had  just  turned  in ;  but  not  before  he  had  expressed  his 
misgivings  to  his  colleague  touching  the  discovery  that  the  captain 
had  so  recently  made,  and  the  consequences  that  would  probably 
follow. 

"  I  warned  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  good-natured  Eckles, 
"  but  you  are  such  a  d d  conceited  blockhead,  and  so  impu 
dent,  that  you  will  listen  to  nothing  till  your  head's  off." 

"  Pooh  !"  answered  the  other,  "  who  cares  ?  I  am  as  good  as 
any  man  that  ever  stood  on  quarter-deck." 

"  Say,  as  great  a  monkey  !  But  you  haven't  heard  the  whole 
of  it.  There  '11  be  more  words  to  that  tune." 

"I'm  not  afraid  to  trust  my  ears.  Get  to  your  hammock, 
Eckles,  and  shut  your  own  ears." 

And  Molyneaux  lighted  a  cigar,  and  began  his  ordinary  paces- 
Eckles,  yawning,  disappeared  below. 

Spite  of  his  expressed  confidence,  spite  of  his  effrontery,  Moly 
neaux  was  not  without  his  own  misgivings.  His  conscience  did 
not  sustain  him.  But  the  same  conceit  and  impudence  which 
moved  him  so  frequently  to  offend,  sufficed  to  strengthen  him  usu 
ally  in  the  encounter  with  the  consequences  of  his  effrontery ;  and 
he  nerved  himself,  with  all  his  resources  of  blood  and  vanity,  when 
he  beheld  the  tall  person  of  his  superior  emerge  from  the  cabin. 

Thus  armed  and  strengthened,  he  could  not  help  the  fancy  that 


SETTLING    ACCOUNTS.  163 

Culvert  had  grown  a  foot  since  he  had  last  seen  Mm.  His  person 
now  seemed  absolutely  gigantic.  He  himself  (Molyneaux)  was  a 
trim,  neatly-built,  compact  young  fellow,  active  in  great  degree, 
and  vigorous  for  his  gristle ;  but,  with  all  his  vanity,  he  did  not 
deceive  himself  with  the  notion  that  he  could,  for  a  single  instant, 
maintain  his  ground  in  a  grapple  with  our  rover.  He  felt  that 
he  was  good  at  his  weapon ;  but  he  knew  that  so  was  Calvert  — 
good  at  any  weapon  —  and  so  powerful,  that,  whether  armed  with 
rapier  or  quarter-staff,  he  was  likely  to  prove  a  dangerous  enemy, 
no  matter  with  whom  he  fought. 

These  things  were  all  thought  over,  in  a  moment,  by  our  lieu 
tenant.  In  truth,  he  had  an  awkward  consciousness  of  guilt  and 
offence,  irrespective  of  his  presumption  in  regard  to  his  superior's 
wife,  which  compelled  a  continually-recurring  reference  to  his  re 
sources,  in  the  event  of  collision  with  that  superior.  His  vanity, 
his  desire  of  power,  his  greed  of  gain,  had  all  combined  to  involve 
him  in  practices  which,  he  well  knew,  if  discovered,  would  justify 
his  principal  in  resorting  to  the  most  summary  punishment.  But, 
as  yet,  these  are  secrets.  He  believes  them  to  be  so,  at  all  events, 
and  in  great  degree  they  are. 

Calvert,  however,  was  growing  suspicious ;  but,  with  sufficient 
grounds  for  suspicion,  he  had  yet  no  proper  clues  for  inquiry,  and 
no  such  evidence  as  would  enable  him  to  form  a  judgment.  It 
was  his  present  policy  to  look  for  these  clues.  And  Calvert, 
proud,  passionate,  resolute,  was  yet  cool  enough,  and  a  sufficiently- 
trained  man,  to  pursue  the  search  with  equal  acuteness  and  dis 
cretion.  As  yet,  his  purpose  was  by  no  means  to  push  the  young 
offender  to  extremity.  He  was  first  to  ascertain  to  what  extent 
the  treachery  of  Molyneaux  had  been  carried,  and  how  many  of 
the  crew  had  been  corrupted.  He  did  not  doubt  that  there  wa3 
treachery,  but  whether  it  contemplated  mere  peculation,  or  an  in 
sane  passion  after  the  supreme  power,  was  a  question.  The  for 
mer  offence  might  be  winked  at  in  a  service  so  indulgent  —  the 
latter  never !  For  the  former,  there  were  inild  rebukes,  and  res 
titution  would  suffice.  The  penalty  of  the  superior  offence  lay  at 
the  end  of  a  rope,  the  swing  of  a  yard-arm,  or,  in  the  event  of 
resistance,  a  sudden  shot  from  a  pistol,  or  the  heavy  stroke  of  a 
cutlass.  But  just  now,  Calvert  contemplated  no  such  necessities. 
He  had  first  to  make  discoveries. 


164  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

He  joined  the  young  man  where  he  stood,  on  ore  side  of  the 
quarter-deck  looking  out  upon  the  shore.  Molyneaux  flung  away 
his  cigar  at  his  superior's  approach,  and  braced  himself  for  the 
encounter,  not  exactly  conceiving  in  what  way  it  would  come.  He 
was  not  left  in  doubt  long.  The  voice  of  Calvert  was  mild  in  tone, 
though  firm  and  serious : — 

"  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  I  had  occasion  to  use  some  sharp  lan 
guage  to  you  in  my  cabin.  You  will  oblige  me  by  giving  me  no 
occasion  in  future  to  repeat  the  language.  My  cabin  is  sacred ; 
but  you  are  sufficiently  well  informed,  as  one  of  British  blood,  to 
know  what  Englishmen  hold  sacred.  Your  offence  consists,  here, 
in  the  knowledge  that  you  do  and  must  offend.  I  should  pay  but 
a  sorry  compliment  to  your  intelligence  to  suppose  you  ignorant 
of  this." 

"  I  was  invited,  sir,  by  your  lady,  into  the  cabin.     She — " 

"  My  wife,  Mr.  Molyneaux,  is  one  of  another  nation  than  ours, 
and  ignorant  of  our  customs.  To  respond,  as  you  did,  to  her  invi 
tation,  when  you  knew  better,  was  as  great  an  outrage  as  if,  ask 
ing  you  for  education  in  the  English  language,  you  had  taught  her 
only  words  of  English  obscenity.  You  owed  it  to  her  as  a  lady, 
and  to  me  as  your  superior  officer,  as  well  as  gentleman,  not  to 
second  her  in  any  mistake  which  she  might  make,  as  a  foreigner, 
by  a  studious  observance  yourself  of  the  nicest  proprieties  upon 
which  our  people  so  tenaciously  insist." 

"  But,  sir,  as  a  lady,  she  had  a  right,  sir — " 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Molyneaux  :  it  is  one  of  your  mistakes  that  you  are 
too  eager  to  urge  the  argument  of  vanity,  rather  than  to  justify 
your  conscientious  convictions  of  the  right.  Let  me  state  clearly 
my  cause  of  complaint.  You  knew  my  wife's  ignorance  of  those 
English  customs  which  we  hold  to  be  requisite  for  propriety,  and 
you  encouraged  her  in  her  violation  of  them,  in  order  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  her  ignorance." 

"  What  advantage,  sir  ?" 

"  It  is  for  you  to  answer.  Suppose  you  do  answer  me  ?  Why 
did  you  err,  sir,  violating  the  rules  of  the  service,  as  well  as  our 
English  proprieties  —  why  do  ix  wrong,  which  you  knew  to  be 
such  —  then  meanly  plead  the  invitation  of  a  woman  ignorant  of 
our  laws,  ignorant  of  English  customs,  to  excuse  you  in  your  know 
ing  violation  of  both,  unless  that  you  proposed  some  selfish  object 
to  yourself? 


SETTLING    ACCOUNTS. 

"  I  had  no  object,  Captain  Calvert." 

"  Mr.  Molyneaux,  I  give  you  credit  for  vices,  but  would  not 
willingly  have  to  reproach  you  for  meannesses  also.  Suffer  your 
self  to  be  silent  rather  than  resort  to  evasion.  But  I  intend  to 
deal  with  you  more  frankly.  Now,  sir,  had  my  wife  been  an 
Englishwoman,  do  you  doubt  that  I  had  slain  both  of  you,  finding 
you  in  my  chamber  with  her  as  I  did  to-night  ?  I  had  as  surely 
pistolled  you  both  as  I  now  speak  to  you  !  I  should  have  listened 
to  nothing  —  said  nothing  —  knowing  that  both  of  you  must  have 
been  aware  of  the  natural  impropriety  of  your  being  found  to* 
gether  in  such  a  situation,  at  such  an  hour,  in  such  circumstances, 
during  my  absence.  She  erred  through  ignorance  :  you  can  make 
no  such  plea.  But  that  I  know  her,  sir,  and  know  that  your  arts 
can  no  more  affect  her  natural  purity  and  simplicity  than  they 
can  deceive  me,  I  should  count  you  equally  guilty.  I  know  that 
you  employ  these  arts  in  vain — " 

"  I  employ  no  arts,  Captain  Calvert !     I  deny,  sir — " 

"  Then  you  are  playing  a  fool's  game,  indeed  !  But,  Mr.  Moly 
neaux,  though  I  feel  sure  of  the  purity  of  my  wife  —  know  that 
she  is  superior  to  any  arts  such  as  yours  —  yet,  sir,  it  is  not  the 
less  displeasing  to  me  that  any  man  should  so  presume  as  to  ap 
proach  her  with  licentious  purpose.  That  she  is  ignorant  of 
offence,  does  not  lessen  your  offence ;  and  I  now  caution  you 
against  any  repetition  of  it.  I  have  hitherto  been  a  little  too 
heedless  of  this  thing,  rather  through  a  feeling  of  scorn  than  indif 
ference.  Now.  however,  that  it  has  come  to  be  matter  of  talk  in 
the  ship,  among  the  common  crew,  I  feel  it  due  to  my  wife's  honor, 
if  not  my  own,  to  arrest  your  further  practice  of  this  sort.  You 
will  observe  a  different  course  from  this  moment.  Do  not,  I  beg 
you,  fall  into  an  error,  natural  enough  to  young  men  of  large  self- 
esteem,  of  supposing  that  I  fear  what  you  might  do.  There  are 
many  occasions  of  offence  which  are  not  necessarily  causes  of  fear. 
With  my  wife,  I  could  afford  you  any  opportunities,  and  still  laugh 
to  scorn  all  your  idle  efforts,  as  she  would  do  were  she  once  made 
to  comprehend  them.  It  will  surprise  you  to  know,  after  all  your 
labors,  that  she  has  no  sort  of  notion  of  what  you  mean,  and  holds 
you  simply  as  a  playmate,  who  amuses  her.  But  my  own  proper 
pride,  and  natural  sense  of  dignity  and  honor,  forbid  that  /should 
tolerate  approaches  which  contemplate  an  insulting  purpose,  how- 


166  THE    CASslQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

ever  little  likely  to  succeed ;  ard,  once  for  all,  I  repeat  the  warn 
ing,  that,  another  such  offence,  and  I  shall  as  certainly  put  you  to 
death  as  that  I  now  speak  to  you  !" 

"  You   have  entirely  mistaken   me,  Captain  Calvert.     I  have 
had  no  such  purposes  as  you  suppose.     I — " 

"  Not  another  word,  Mr.  Molyneaux !  —  you  do  not  help  the 
matter.  I  know  young  men  —  I  know  man  —  I  know  you  !  Our 
business  connection  is  such  as  to  render  me  quite  satisfied  with 
you  as  a  good  seaman,  as  a  clever  officer,  as  a  brave  young  man, 
who  knows  his  duty  and  has  the  courage  to  perform  it.  For  these 
qualities  I  need  you  and  respect  you.  That  I  have  done  you  full 
justice  for  these  qualities,  your  employment  from  the  beginning  — 
your  elevation,  as  second  officer  of  this  ship  —  will  sufficiently 
prove.  You  owe  this  promotion  wholly  to  me.  I  have  advanced 
you,  not  waiting  entreaty,  seeing  your  abilities  with  my  own  eyes. 
I  have  still  other  services  for  you,  and  there  is  still  further  pro 
motion  if  you  continue  faithful.  My  purpose,  in  rebuking,  is  not 
to  pain  or  to  degrade,  but  to  save  you.  I  understand,  of  course, 
that,  in  what  I  have  said  to  you  this  night,  I  have  somewhat  mor 
tified  your  vanity ;  and  this  was  also  a  part  of  my  purpose.  It  is 
upon  this  rock,  Mr.  Molyneaux  —  this  rock  of  vanity  —  that  your 
ship  is  destined  to  founder.  It  is  this  rock  upon  which  most 
young  men  sink  their  fortunes.  I  have  noted  this  your  chief  weak 
ness,  and  lamented  it  for  a  long  time.  I  have  seen  through  all  the 
little  arts  by  which  you  have  fed  your  own  weakness,  and  it  is 
time  to  open  your  eyes  to  your  self-delusion.  If  you  are  warned 
in  season,  you  may  cure  yourself  of  this  infirmity.  If,  on  the  con 
trary,  you  feel  counsel  only  as  offence ;  if  your  vanity  still  pre 
vails  over  wisdom  ;  if  you  too  impatiently  seek  your  ends  ;  if  these 
ends  really  contemplate  only  the  temporary  enjoyment  and  the 
gratification  of  self-esteem  —  your  career  will  be  short,  and  the 
end  shameful !  I  have  now  sufficiently  warned  you.  It  is  for 
me  an  effort  to  do  so,  and  should  argue  to  you  a  degree  of  interest 
in  your  behalf  which  should  rather  awaken  pride  than  offend  van 
ity.  It  would  be  easier  for  me,  I  assure  you,  to  brush  off  an 
offender  than  seek  to  cure  him.  And  now,  sir,  to  the  business  of 
the  ship." 

We  have  forborne  the  various  interpositions  made  by  Lieuten 
ant  Molyneaux,  in  which  he  sought  to  excuse  his  offences,  or  to 


SETTLING   ACCOUNTS.  167 

evade  the  conclusions  of  his  superior,  or  to  assert  his  self-esteem. 
We  pass  them  by,  very  much  as  Calvert  himself  did,  and  for  the 
same  reason,  as  discreditable  pleas  and  evasions,  put  in  at  the  ex 
pense  of  his  manhood.  He  was  not  prepared  to  join  final  issue 
with  his  superior ;  and  a  sense  of  guilt  is,  in  a  young  mind,  a 
necessary  source  of  weakness.  But  his  vanity  stimulated  him  to 
replies  which  were  only  to  be  urged  at  the  cost  of  character  and 
pride  ;  and  to  all  these  Calvert  refused  to  listen,  and  so  may  we. 
We  need  not  report  them,  at  all  events. 

Nor  did  Calvert  wholly  mistake  the  nature  of  his  lieutenant,  so 
far  as  to  suppose  that  the  same  vanity  would  suffer  him  to  grow 
wiser  after  the  rebuke.  He  knew  the  man  too  well  to  believe 
that  anything  short  of  severe  penalties,  actually  enforced,  could  do 
any  effectual  service  in  bringing  him  back  to  a  right  consciousness 
of  his  true  relations  with  the  world  about  him.  He  rightly  con 
ceived  that  all  which  he  said  would  be  wasted  upon  blind  ears ; 
but  he  had  his  own  policy  in  his  exhortations,  and  their  very 
severity  on  one  subject  was  calculated  to  render  the  young  man 
obtuse  to  those  more  searching  inquiries  which  his  superior  had 
to  make  in  other  directions.  Had  Calvert  said  nothing  to  him 
touching  his  presence  in  the  cabin,  Molyneaux  must  either  have 
supposed  him  grossly  insensible  to  his  honor  —  which  he  could 
hardly  be  —  or  too  deeply  interested  in  other  matters,  in  which 
the  guilty  man  was  a  participator,  to  suffer  him  to  attach  a  proper 
weight  to  this.  Briefly,  to  forbear  in  the  present  instance,  might 
have  led  Molyneaux  to  suppose  that  his  forbearance  was  a  blind, 
concealing  his  scrutiny  into  other  offences,  quite  as  flagrant,  and 
much  more  dangerous  in  their  consequences.  To  dwell  on  this, 
as  the  captain  had  done,  and  with  so  much  severity,  was,  in  short, 
equivalent  to  saying  to  him,  "  This  is  my  only  cause  of  quarrel  or 
complaint." 

So  Molyneaux  construed  it ;  and,  conscious  of  so  much  more 
offence,  yet  undeveloped  and  apparently  unconjectured,  he  was 
quite  willing  for  the  present  to  escape  so  easily.  But  the  language, 
tone,. and  manner,  of  his  superior,  stung  him  to  the  quick;  and, 
though  he  endeavored  so  to  compose  his  muscles,  and  regulate  his 
tones  and  words,  and  subdue  his  passion,  as  to  answer  with  mod 
eration  and  almost  with  humility,  the  hate  all  the  while  was  growing 
in  his  heart,  in  due  degree  with  his  efforts  to  suppress  its  exhibition. 


168  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   SIAWAH. 

CaVvert  read  him  through ;  understood  all  the  workings  of  his 
mind ;  smiled  a  bitter  scorn  as  he  listened  to  his  replies ;  and  said 
to  himself,  at  the  close : — 

"  He  will  not  be  saved  !  But  my  time  is  not  yet  come  —  nor 
his.  We  can  both  wait !" 

And  so  he  proceeded  to  talk,  as  it  were  indifferently,  of  the 
affairs  of  the  ship ;  taking  a  minute  report  of  everything  that  had 
been  done  in  his  absence,  even  to  a  list  of  the  names  of  parties 
engaged  in  the  several  tasks  of  scouting  the  woods,  fishing,  load 
ing  and  unloading,  and  of  the  crews  employed  in  conveying  the 
boats  to  town. 

u  Any  signs  of  Indians  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  not  within  five  miles.  They  do  not  seem  to  have 
found  us  out  yet.  There  is  a  new  plantation  settling,  about  five 
miles  below  where  they  have  been  in  considerable  numbers." 

"  Keep  your  scouts  busy  still  —  your  best  men  —  and  have  a 
squad  of  three  or  four  of  them  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  with 
a  boat  in  cover,  directly  opposite,  night  and  day.  Let  them  report 
to  you  nightly.  Have  you  had  any  men  missing  —  any  off  with 
out  leave  ?" 

"  No,  sir. 

This  was  said  boldly. 

"  Keep  your  eye  upon  the  boats,  so  that  none  shall  be  missing 
without  your  knowing  it.  The  danger  is,  that  some  of  these  block 
heads  will  be  running  down  to  Charleston,  where  a  reward  is 
offered  for  every  mother's  son  of  them  !  We  may,  in  fact,  very 
soon  have  to  change  our  quarters.  You  have  an  inventory  of  all 
the  goods  sent  down,  the  number  of  loads,  and  a  receipt  from 
Franks  for  all  delivered?" 

"  Here  it  is,  sir." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  examine  it  by  daylight.  The  light  arti 
cles  are  nearly  all  gone,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Two  more  boats  will  carry  them,  sir." 

"  We  shall  then  have  to  devise  a  plan  for  discharging  the  heavy, 
so  as  to  avoid  this  tedious  process,  which  would  consume  weeks 
for  us.  In  fact,  the  boats  can  hardly  be  used  for  the  purpose. 
But  of  this  to-morrow.  Good-night,  Mr.  Molyneaux." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

And  the  captain  went  below  without  lingering. 


SETTLING   ACCOUNTS.  109 

"  Now,  d — n  his  blood  !"  broke  from  the  lieutenant,  as  he  shook 
his  clenched  fist  toward  the  cabin  when  the  rover  had  disappeared. 
"  But  I  will  have  it  out  of  his  heart  yet !  Oh  !  she  is  too  pure, 
is  she  ?  —  too  virtuous,  eh  ?  Of  course,  I  can  not  succeed  !  He 
feels  quite  safe,  does  he,  on  that  score  ?  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  This  is 

the  way  in  which  these  d d  silly  husbands  deceive  themselves. 

Well,  we  shall  see!     It  is  a  defiance  —  a  challenge!     We  shall 

see  !     If  I  am  to  be  taunted  on  that  score,  by I  will  see  if  I 

can  not  revenge  the  taunt !  Too  pure  —  too  immaculate  !  Ha  ! 
ha  !  As  if  there  was  ever  yet  painted  daughter  of  Eve  who  could 
resist  the  right  persuader  !  We  shall  see  !  She  shall  make  me 
sweet  atonement  for  all  this  ;  and  he  !  — ay,  if  I  do  not  have  it  out 
of  his  heart's  blood,  then  curse  me  for  a  coward  who  has  no  red 
blood  in  his  own !" 

8 


170  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH, 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

LOVE-POWDER. 

'''Make  me  a  potent  filter  that  shall  work 
Upon  his  passionate  senses,  till  I  grow 
His  moon  of  fancy,  and  with  queenly  power, 
Such  as  pale  Hecate  holds  upon  the  sea, 
Rouse  all  the  fervid  billows  of  his  heart, 
Till  they  flow  up  to  mine." 

SCARCELY  had  Calvert  shut  himself  within  his  cabin,  when 
Sylvia,  the  mulattress,  crawled  out  from  a  cupboard  which  had 
concealed  her  under  the  stairs  of  the  companion-way,  and  stole 
up  to  the  deck,  where  she  joined  Molyneaux. 

He  had  corrupted  her.  This  was  one  of  the  discoveries  which 
Belcher  had  made,  leading  him  to  suspect  Molyneaux  of  other 
treacheries  ;  but  he  had  failed  to  communicate  the  fact  to  his  supe 
rior,  for  the  reason,  probably,  that  Calvert  had  given  rather  indif 
ferent  attention  to  all  the  reports  which  had  been  made  him  in 
respect  to  his  lieutenant's  intimacy  with  Zulieme.  But  unques 
tionably,  now,  the  mulattress  was  in  the  pay  of  the  lieutenant. 

She  approached  him  without  preliminaries,  he  being  ready  to 
welcome  her  communications  ;  showing  that  the  understanding  be 
tween  them  had  been  sufficiently  well  matured.  In  her  negro 
patois,  which  we  do  not  care  to  adopt,  she  began  thus : — 

"  We  are  to  go  to  Charleston.  He  told  her  so  to-night.  They 
had  a  long  talk ;  and  she 's  to  change  her  name,  and  live  with  a 
Mrs.  Anderson  ;  and  she's  to  go  to  balls  and  parties  every  night; 
and  there's  to  be  fine  times ;  and  who  but  she?" 

And  so  the  Abigail  rambled  on,  in  a  loose  manner;  contriving, 
however,  to  report  very  fully  all  that  Calvert  had  said  to  his  wife 
in  respect  to  her  abode  in  town. 

u  But  had  they  no  quarrel  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  but  he  smoothed  it  all  over,  easy  enough,  as  soon  as 


LOVE-POWDER.  171 

he  let  her  know  that  she  was  to  go  to  Charleston.  That's  what 
she's  been  dying  for.  She  so  loves  to  be  dancing  in  a  crowd  of 
people !" 

"  But  what  said  he  about  my  being  in  the  cabin  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  told  her  he'd  kill  her  if  she  was  another  woman.  But 
I  don't  see  the  sense  of  that.  And  she  was  spunky,  and  told  him 
to  kill  her,  and  she  did  n't  care  how  soon;  and  she  called  him  a 
brute-beast  of  an  Englishman;  she  did!  She  didn't  pick  the 
words,  but  said  'em  just  as  they  come  up.  She  ain't  afear'd  of 
him,  to  be  sure.  When  he  says  '  dog,'  she  says  '  cat ;'  and  if  he 
shows  his  teeth,  she 's  ready  for  a  scratch,  any  day.  Lord,  how 
she  does  give  it  to  him  sometimes  !" 

"  It  was  a  pretty  bit  of  a  quarrel,  then  ?" 

"  It  did  me  good  to  hear  it,  for  he 's  such  a  dog-in-the-manger, 
and  he  'd  put  his  foot  on  her  if  she  had  n't  the  spunk.  And  I 
do  n't  see  why  she  should  n't  say  what  she  pleases,  when  she 
brought  him  all  the  fortune." 

"  To  be  sure  —  why  not  ?  That 's  right !  So  you  think  there 's 
no  love  lost  between  them  ?" 

"  As  for  the  love,  there 's  no  saying.  If  there 's  any  between 
'em,  she 's  got  it.  He  do  n't  love  nothing !  But,  somehow,  she 
has  a  sort  of  liking  for  him,  though  she  does  scratch-/' 

"  But  liking  can 't  last  long,  if  it 's  ( cat  and  dog'  between  them." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  and  she  'd  rather  be  dancing  with  you,  a  thou 
sand  times,  than  sitting  down  at  '  dumby  and  doggy'  with  him." 

"  But  what  was  the  upshot  of  it  all  ?     How  did  it  end  ?" 

"  Oh,  she  hugged  him  and  kissed  him  after  he  told  her  she  was 
to  go  to  town ;  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  sobbing  and  crying, 
and  cross  words,  first." 

"  Did  she  weep  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  little.  It  was  a  sort  of  scream  and  sob.  Then  she 
hushed  up,  and  laughed  out ;  and  he  told  her  she  was  a  baby,  and 
maybe  kissed  her;  and  so  he  told  her  to  go  to  bed,  and  then  ho 
came  up  to  you." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  of  me?" 

"  Not  much ;  only  that  he  would  kill  you  and  kill  her,  if  he 
ever  caught  you  in  his  cabin  again.  'T  was  then  she  caiaed  nnii 
&  brute-beast  of  an  Englishman."  * 

"  Rough  words,  Sylvia." 


172  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"Wasn't  they?  But  he  made  all  smooth  when  he  told  her 
that  she  was  to  go  to  town." 

"  But  if  she  likes  me,  Sylvia,  what  makes  her  so  eagfer  x>  get 
away  with  him?" 

"  It 's  the  balls  and  dances,  I  tell  you.  It 's  not  to  go  with  him. 
He 's  not  to  go  with  us.  He 's  to  send  us  to  Mrs.  Anderson,  in 
the  boat." 

"  Ah  !  he  's  not  to  go  with  her  ?  What 's  he  to  do  with  him 
self?" 

"  Stay  here,  I  reckon." 

"I  don't  like  that!  What  would  he  stay  for?  He's  not 
wanted  here.  I  can  see  to  the  ship." 

"  I  do  n't  know.     That 's  what  he  told  her." 

"  What  more  ?     Did  you  pick  up  any  more  ?" 

The  mulattress  simply  repeated  what  had  been  said  already. 

"  Well,"  said  Molyneaux,  "  when  you  get  to  town,  I  shall  proba 
bly  send  some  one  to  you  :  if  I  can,  will  come  myself.  You  must 
find  out  all  you  can ;  keep  an  eye  on  both  of  them ;  let  me  know 
all  you  hear ;  and  keep  talking  to  her  about  me.  You  know  how 
to  do  it," 

"  Do  n't  I !  Oh,  she  thinks  you  a  mighty  fine  man  —  a  hand 
some  man — " 

"Ah!  she  does?     Well?" 

"  She  says  you  have  a  most  beautiful  figure." 

"  Ah  !  she  sees  that  —  she  says  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  th  bugh  she  says  't  ain't  so  mighty  as  the  cap 
tain's." 

"  No  —  thank  God,  I  'm  not  an  elephant !" 

"  No,  indeed,  you  're  not  so  big.  Now,  she  says,  if  you  only 
knew  how  to  dance — " 

"  What !  I  do  n't  know  how  to  dance  ?" 

"  That 's  what  she  says  of  all  you  English,  except  ihe  captain. 
Now,  he  can  dance  Spanish,  and  so  lightly,  though  he  's  so  large 
and  heavy.  But  he  learned  among  our  people  —  and  he's  so 
active !" 

"  Not  more  so  than  I  am." 

"You  think  not?" 

"  Certainly  not !  I  'm  as  light  and  active  as  any  man  in  tha 
British  islands." 


LOVE-POWDER.  173 

"  Ah  !  is  it  possible  ?" 

**  I  can  run  as  fast,  bound  as  high,  jump  as  far,  hop  as  long,  as 
any  man  of  my  size  in  Britain." 

"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  it!  She  likes  to  see  men  doing  these 
things.  But  you  don't  dance  so  well  as  the  captain.  She  says 
so." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  can  be.     I've  never  seen  him  dance." 

"  Oh,  he  never  will  dance  now.  That's  one  thing  she  quarrels 
about.  He  won't  play  with  her  now  as  he  used  to.  If  he  would, 
I'm  sure  you'd  stand  no  chance.  But,  because  you  play  with 
her,  she  likes  you." 

"  Well,  if  she  likes  me,  I  don't  care  much  whether  it's  because 
of  my  heels  or  my  head.  Liking  can  grow  to  loving." 

«  That  it  can  !" 

"  And  I  'm  sworn  to  have  her." 

"  And  so  you  can  !" 

"You  must  do  your  best,  Sylvia.  There's  a  dollar  for  you. 
Tell  me  everything,  and  you  shall  have  more.  Do  all  that  you 
can  to  make  her  love  me,  and  I  '11  pay  you  well.  And  if  I  get 
her,  my  girl,  I  '11  make  you  rich." 

"  If  we  could  only  give  her  a  powder,  now — " 

"  A  powder !  what 's  that  ?  what  for  ?" 

"  A  powder  to  make  her  love  you." 

"  I  've  heard  of  such  ;  but  that 's  all  nonsense." 

"Nonsense!  I  tell  you  it's  true.  We've  got  powders  at  Da- 
rien  that  '11  make  the  eyes  of  a  man  or  woman  fasten  upon  a  per 
son  as  if  they  could  see  nothing  else ;  make  'em  dream  of  'em 
every  night,  and  always  such  sweet  dreams ;  make  'em  hunt  after 
'em,  as  a  dog  hunts  after  the  deer ;  oh,  make  their  hearts  feel  for 
nothing  else  but  them  !" 

"Why  don't  you  give  her  one  of  these  powders,  then,  on  my 
account?  I  don't  much  believe  in  what  you  tell  me,  but  you 
aust  try  everything." 

"  So  I  would  if  I  had  the  powders.  If  I  was  at  Darien,  now, 
I  could  soon  get  'em.  But  they  're  made  out  of  roots  that  grow 
only  in  our  mountains.  And  you  have  to  look  for  'em  at  night, 
and  when  there's  no  moon,  and  that's  dangerous.  But  when  you 
have  only  the  roots  about  you,  in  your  pocket,  and  walk  side-by- 
side  with  the  person  you  want  to  love  you,  they  '11  almost  grow  to 


174  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

you.  They  can 't  leave  you  for  a  moment,  without  pain ;  and 
they're  happy  as  soon  as  they  can  get  to  you  again.  I  do  think 
that  the  captain  had  some  of  those  roots  in  his  pocket,  when  they 
first  brought  him  to  our  hacienda ;  and  that 's.  the  reason  that  my 
young  mistress  took  to  him  so  mad  as  she  did." 

"  There 's  reason  in  that.  I  wonder  if  he  has  any  of  them  about 
him  still!  —  But  it's  all  nonsense.  No  use  to  talk  about  it.  You 
must  do  what  you  can,  Sylvia,  without  the  love-powder.  Now, 
I'm  a  good-looking  fellow  —  a  handsome  fellow:  you  can  say 
that,  surely;  and  don't  let  her  forget  it.  Look  at  that  leg." 

And  he  stuck  his  foot  upon  the  gunwale,  and  stroked  his  calf 
complacently. 

"  There  's  a  leg  for  you,  Sylvia !" 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  if  you  could  only  shake  it  Spanish  fashion." 

"  Oh,  d — n  the  Spanish  fashion  !  I  can  shake  it  Irish  fashion^ 
you  fool,  and  that  never  failed  to  please  a  woman  yet.  Don't 
forget  that.  Do  you  hear?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  Well,  what  can  you  say  against  my  face  —  my  figure  ?" 

"  Say  against  'em,  sir  ?  Oh,  bless  your  eyes,  who  can  say  any 
thing  against  'em  ?" 

"  Well,  but  what  can  you  say  for  them,  Sylvia  ?  That 's  the 
true  question." 

"  Well,  sir,  every  woman  sees  a  man  with  just  her  own  pair  of 
eyes.  Now,  if  'twas  for  myself,  I  like  your  face  and  figure  so 
well,  that,  if  you  was  to  ask  me,  I  'd  have  you  to-morrow,  and 
jump  at  you  too.  And  so,  I  reckon,  would  my  mistress,  if  she 
was  only  a  free  woman ;  for  she  says  you  're  a  handsome  fellow, 
only  you  can't  dance  Spanish." 

"  I  '11  make  her  a  free  woman,  by  all  the  holies !  Remember 
that!  Tell  her  that!  Let  her  but  say  that  she  loves  me,  and 
I  '11  go  through  blazes  to  set  her  free  from  this  infernal  bondage ! 
As  for  the  dancing  Spanish,  let  her  know  that  my  legs  —  and  you 
see  them  —  were  made  for  dancing  Irish.  Let  her  find  a  pair  of 
Spanish  calves  to  match  with  these,  and  I  '11  admit  that  there 's 

some  virtue  in  these  d d  Spanish  dances  ;  but,  till  then,  an  Irish 

jig  for  me,  whenever  good  legs  are  to  be  shaken.  Go,  now,  Syl 
via.  There's  another  dollar  for  you,  my  girl.  Keep  it  up  —  do 
you  hear?  The  drop  of  water  will  wear  away  the  stone;  and 


LOVE-POWDER.  175 

the  right  word,  said  at  the  right  time,  and  at  all  times  whvm  you 
get  a  chance,  will  wear  down  a  flinty  heart.  Keep  your  ears 
open,  and  your  tongue  only  for  me." 

While  this  scene  was  in  progress,  ignorant  if  not  indifferent, 
Harry  Calvert  was  keeping  painful  vigil  below.  He  did  not 
sleep  —  did  not  seek  for  sleep  —  was  busy  with  books  and  papers. 
He  read  and  wrote  alternately  for  two  hours-  Then  rising,  put 
ting  away  books  and  papers,  he  approached  the  berth  where  Zu- 
lieme  slept  —  slept  like  a  child — just  as  heedless  of  the  morning 
as  if  it  were  never  to  dawn  again.  The  strong  man  gazed  on  her 
sleeping  features,  in  a  stern  and  meditative  silence.  What  was 
she  to  him  ?  Were  she  lying  there  in  the  absolute  embrace  of 
Death  —  as  she  was  in  that  of  its  twin-sister,  Sleep  —  he  would 
probably  have  been  as  sadly  calm  a  spectator.  What  was  she  to 
him  ?  We  have  heard  already.  But,  though  indifferent,  he  would 
not  have  had  one  breath  of  heaven  too  roughly  to  beteem  her 
cheeks.  Not  a  harsh  thought,  not  an  ungenerous  feeling,  not  a 
hostile  fancy,  filled  his  heart  or  mind  toward  her.  True,  she  was 
but  a  child  in  his  sight  —  erring,  weak,  silly  —  a  creature  quite 
unsuited  to  his  needs  as  to  his  nature ;  but  whose  was  the  fault 
that  she  was  here  ? 

"  That  is  the  grief,"  he  murmured,  as  he  gazed.  "  Did  I  not, 
from  the  first,  know  that  she  was  only  the  feeble,  thoughtless  crea 
ture  that  I  have  found  her  ?  Knowing  this,  what  had  I  to  do 
with  her  ?  Why  did  I  pluck  her  from  her  proper  home  —  from 
the  simple  bed  of  security  in  which  she  had  grown  —  beloved, 
watched,  nurtured  tenderly,  and  honored  — -  when  I  could  not  love 
or  honor,  could  hardly  watch, And  certainly  not  tenderly  nurture? 
I  must  not  cast  her  off,  nor  scorn  her,  nor  rate  heavily  her  offences, 
nor  treat  her  with  indifference  !  She  must  not  feel,  at  my  hands, 
meaner  measure  of  care  and  kindness  than  I  have  had  at  hers  — 
than  she  herself  has  always  got  from  those  of  fond,  foolish  mother, 
and  idolizing,  doting  father.  Love  is  impossible.  That  I  feel ! 
But,  for  the  rest  —  the  care,  the  kindness,  the  protection,  the  in 
dulgence  —  these  she  must  never  lack  !  Were  she  guilty,  now ! 
—  But,  no  !  Who  that  looks  upon  that  sleep  so  placid,  childlike, 
satisfied  —  the  lips  slightly  parted,  the  brow  unruffled,  the  breath 
ing  regular  and  soft  like  that  of  an  infant,  and  the  bosom  so  sweetly 


176  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

heaving  —  shall  doubt  that  he  looks  upon  the  sleep  of  innocence? 
Ah  !  she  is  sobbing  in  her  sleep  —  a  half-stifled  sob  —  a  slight 
convulsion  of  feeling,  spite  of  sleep,  as  if  the  memory  were  busy 
recalling  those  sharp  words  of  mine  to-night.  Sleep  on,  poor  girl, 
sleep  on !  I  will  not  question  your  purity,  though  I  may  your 
prudence.  Shall  I  chafe  because  you  are  ignorant  of  vice  —  of 
those  passions  that  make  vice  a  necessity  —  that  make  jealousy 
and  suspicion  the  necessary  guardians  in  a  world  consciously  cor 
rupt  ?  No,  no !  Sleep  on :  I  will  endure  it  as  I  may !" 

§he  woke,  and  threw  out  her  arms. 

"  Harry  —  is  it  you,  Harry  ?  Ah  !  you  dear  brute  Englishman, 
why  do  n't  you  come  to  bed  ?  You  know  we  are  to  go  to  Charles 
ton  in  the  morning.  Ha !  ha !  Harry." 

And  she  sighed,  and  lapsed  away  again  in  sleep. 


ZULIEME   IN    CHARLESTON.  177 


CHAPTER  xix. 

ZULIEME    IN    CHARLESTON. 

"  Put  on  our  state, 

Our  bravest ;  we  are  here  among  the  best, 
And  we  must  bear  us  as  becomes  the  beauty 
That  ignorant  wonder  still  has  made  us  known  : 
We're  here  but  to  be  worshipped." 

ZULIEME  was  awake  by  daylight,  but  only  to  be  disappointed. 
She  did  not  start  for  the  city  quite  so  soon  as  she  experted. 
Morning  came,  and  no  departure.  And  Calvert  was  absent,  no 
one  knew  in  what  quarter ;  in  the  woods  somewhere  ;  but  whether 
with  or  without  an  object,  who  could  say  ? 

Zulieme  was  in  despair!  But  by  noon  he  came  —  unexpect 
edly  as  he  went ;  and  it  was  then  understood  that  it  was  only  after 
night,  availing  himself  of  the  tide,  that  he  meant  that  the  boats 
should  drop  down  the  river. 

To  wait  for  hours !  Oh,  what  a  trial  to  the  eager  heart  of 
youth !  But  the  night,  with  grateful  cover,  came  at  last.  The 
boats  were  manned,  and  Zulieme  summoned.  Her  trunks  were 
already  on  board ;  and  she  herself  had  been  ready,  as  we  have 
seen,  some  twelve  hours  before.  She,  too,  passed  on  board.  She 
gave  her  hand  cordially  to  Molyneaux,  and  Eckles  too,  as  she  left 
the  vessel  —  though  the  don,  her  husband,  was  at  hand  —  and 
spoke  her  farewell  with  all  the  freedom  of  a  child. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Molyneaux  —  good-by,  Mr.  Eckles,"  she  cried 
to  them,  with  naive  accents  —  "  good-by  !  Do  n't  you  forget  me  ! 
I'm  going  to  town,  you  know,  where  we  shall  have  dances  a 
plenty,  but  I  sha'n't  soon  forget  those  funny  ones  we  have  had  in 
the  woods." 

"  That 's  not  very  sentimental,  Molyneaux,"  muttered  Eckles  in 


178  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

the  ears  of  his  brother-lieutenant,     "  She  do  n't  break  her  heart  at 
parting  with  us,  my  boy !" 

And  Moiyneaux  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opinion,  for  he  an 
swered  very  churlishly  to  his  brother-officer,  and  in  rather  saddish 
accents  to  the  senora.  But  there  was  still  a  scene  in  reserve,  not 
in  the  programme.  Sylvia  was  about  to  step  on  board  after  her 
mistress,  when  Calvert  arrested  her. 

"  Back,  girl !  we  want  none  of  you.     You  will  remain  here." 

"  Oh,  missis,  they  won't  let  me  come  !" 

"  Harry,"  cried  Zulieme,  hearing  the  anguished  cry  of  the  Abi 
gail,  "  I  must  have  Sylvia." 

"  Impossible,  Zulieme." 

"  But  I  can 't  do  without  her,  Harry.  Do  n't  tell  me  impos 
sible  !" 

"  You  must  try,  Zulieme.  I  would  n't  have  her  long  tongue 
among  the  townspeople  for  half  our  cargo.  Do  you  forget  that 
we  have  secrets  there,  Zulieme  ?" 

"  I  can 't  help  it :  Sylvia  must  go.  Who  is  to  dress  me  and 
tend  me  ?" 

"  She  can  not  go,  Zulieme." 

"Then  I  won't  go !  for  I  can't  do  without  her,  Harry." 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  it ;  for  you  must  stay,  then  !  —  Back  the  boats, 
fellows." 

"  But,  Harry,  why  can 't  Sylvia  go  ?     You  are  so  cross  always  !" 

"  I  have  given  you  the  reason  already,  Zulieme.  The  secrets 
of  the  ship  must  not  be  blabbed  about  the  town." 

"  But  she  won't  blab,  Harry.     I  promise  you  !" 

"  You  promise  !  Answer  for  yourself,  Zulieme.  You  will  have 
enough  to  do  !  As  for  trusting  anything  to  such  a  parrot,  I  can 't 
think  of  it.  Come,  Zulieme,  decide  !  Will  you  go,  or  stay  ?" 

"  And  Sylvia  is  not  to  go  ?" 

"  No,  as  I  'm  a  living  man  !" 

"  You  're  a  monster !  Never  mind,  Sylvia  :  I  '11  bring  you  fine 
things." 

"  You  are  content  to  go  without  her  ?" 

"  I  suppose  I  must  be.  You  try  all  you  can  to  make  me  mis 
erable.  You're  such  a  brute  Englishman,  I  wonder  why  I  ever 
married  you !" 

"  So  do  I,  Zulieme  —  very  much,  and  very  often.     But,  speak 


ZULIEME   IN    CHARLESTON.  179 

quickly.  The  tide  is  running  down  fast.  I  do  not  compel  you  to 
go,  Zulieme.  If  you  can't  do  without  Sylvia,  don't  go  —  don't 
leave  her." 

In  a  subdued,  sobbing  voice,  Zulieme  cried  out : — 

"  Good-by,  Sylvia !  You  see  how  it  is !  He  won't  let  you 
come." 

"  0  my  missis  !  what  I  going  to  do  without  you  ?" 

"  Take  your  amusements,  Sylvia.     Dance  all  you  can." 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh !"  sobbed  the  disconsolate  Abigail,  as  the  boats 
swept  away  down-stream ;  while  Zulieme  repeated  for  the  twen 
tieth  time : — 

"  You  try  all  you  can  to  cross  me,  Harry  Calvert,  and  make 
me  miserable.  I  'm  sure  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you  !" 

"  It  was,  indeed,  a  great  misfortune,"  he  responded,  in  very  so 
ber,  serious  tones,  and  not  reproachfully,  only  painfully. 

"  To  me  it  was,  Harry  Calvert  —  to  me,  to  me  only !" 

"  Surely :  who  else  ?  It  was  to  you,  Zulieme,  I  repeat,  a  very 
great  misfortune." 

"  But  it  need  not  be,  if  you  were  not  the  great  bear  of  an  Eng 
lishman  that  you  are !  If  you  'd  try,  I  'm  sure  you  could  make 
me  happy." 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,  Zulieme.  But,  indeed,  I  do  try  as  well  as  I 
can,  and  as  far  as  I  think  it  proper.  But  how  could  you  suppose 
that  I  would  suffer  that  wench  to  go  with  you  to  the  city,  where 
you  are  to  bear  another  name  than  mine,  when  you  know  that  she 
has  the  tongue  of  a  jay.  and  the  wriggling  propensities  of  an  eel  ? 
She  would  never  rest  till  she  had  blabbed  everything.  Be  con 
tent  !  You  will  have  better  'tendance  with  Mrs.  Anderson  than 
Sylvia  could  ever  give  you.  She  will  find  you  half  a  dozen  bet 
ter  maid-servants,  each  worth  a  dozen  of  Sylvia." 

But  we  need  not  hearken  further  to  this  (however  interesting) 
domestic  difficulty.  Enough,  that  the  decision  of  Calvert  deranged 
some  of  the  plans  of  Molyneaux  —  for  the  moment.  Of  these, 
hereafter. 

The  boats  swept  quietly  down  the  pladd,  poetical  river,  now 
veering  to  one  and  now  to  the  other  bank  —  each  side  presenting, 
with  pleasing  alternations,  some  fairy-like  glimpses  of  the  shore, 
crowned  everywhere  with  green  umbrage,  and  the  headlands 
overshadowing  half  the  stream  with  the  great  branches 


180  THE    CASSIQUE    OP   KIAWAH. 

of  their  ancient  oaks.  At  length,  a  blazing  pile  of  pine-fagots, 
raised  upon  a  knoll  of  earth,  drew  the  eyes  of  the  party  to  the 
western  banks.  In  the  rear  of  this  pyre  stood  a  dark,  square 
mass,  which  Calvert  instantly  recognised  as  the  ancient  "  Block 
house"  commanding  the  creek  at  "  Oldtown."  This  pyre  was  his 
signal.  He  knew  that  Gowdey  was  on  the  watch,  and  that  his 
horse  was  in  readiness.  Franks  had  punctually  fulfilled  his  orders. 

Without  a  word,  having  the  tiller  in  his  grasp,  our  rover  turned 
the  head  of  the  boat  directly  for  the  ancient  landing,  with  which 
he  was  quite  familiar.  As  the  boat  darted  into  the  little  creek, 
Zulieme  cried  out : — 

"  Why,  Harry,  what 's  this  ?     Why  do  you  come  here  ?" 

"  Here  I  leave  the  boat,  Zulieme." 

"  But  you  mustn't  leave  me.  You  must  carry  me  yourself  to 
Mrs.  Anderson,  Harry." 

"  Impossible  !    But  I  have  arranged  everything.    Have  no  fear." 

"  Oh  !  don't  you  tell  me  to  have  no  fear.  I  will  have  fear;  I 
will  be  afraid.  You  send  me  among  strange  people,  Harry  Cal 
vert,  and  who  ought  to  introduce  me  but  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  Zulieme,  you  are  already  introduced,  and  Mrs.  Per 
kins  Anderson  awaits  you.  She  knows  you,  and  I  have  tried  my 
best  to  make  you  know  her.  I  have  told  you  that  she's  a  fine, 
fashionable  woman,  and  gives  balls  and  parties,  the  very  finest  in 
Charleston  ;  that  she 's  sentimental,  and  flirts  with  perfect  grace  ; 
that  she's  very  sweet-tempered,  being  young,  rich,  and  surrounded 
by  admirers.  So  much  for  her.  You  will  find  that  all  I've  told 
you  is  true,  and  that  she  eagerly  e.xpects  you,  and  will  know  you 
at  a  glance.  I've  told  her  that  you  dance  to  perfection ;  that  you 
like  nothing  so  well  in  the  world  as  dancing ;  that  you  will  dance 
all  night ;  dream  all  day  of  dancing  all  night ;  awaken  only  to 
work  out  your  dreams ;  and  that  you  would  not  give  a  fig  for  life 
•tself,  unless  with  the  privilege  of  using  your  legs  to  the  sound  of 
the  tambourine  ;  that  you  are  disappointed  in  your  husband  only 
as  he  is  not  content  to  be  a  dancing-machine  for  your  exercise." 

"That's  as  much  as  to  say  you've  told  her  I'm  a  fool,  you 
great  English  cayman!  But  I'll  not  go  to  her  house  —  I  won't 
go  a  step  —  unless  you  go  along  with  me*;  that's  flat!" 

"  As  you  please,  Zulieme.  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  go 
with  you  to-night.  That,  too,  is  flat  I  You  will  at  least  accora- 


ZULIEME   IN    CHARLESTON.  181 

pany  the  boat,  and  either  land  in  Charleston,  and  go  to  Mrs.  An 
derson,  or  keep  quiet  in  the  boat  till  its  return,  when  you  can  go 
back  to  the  ship." 

"  No !  I  '11  do  neither,  since  you  won't  go  with  me.  I  '11  go 
with  you.  I'll  see  where  you  go  to-night.  I'm  too  great  a  fool 
to  go  to  Mrs.  Anderson's!  I'll  show  you  that  I  can  do  without 
dancing.  /  love  dancing !  when  I  care  nothing  about  it  in  the 
world,  except  when  I  've  got  nothing  else  to  amuse  me." 

To  this  determined  speech  Calvert  gave  no  attention.  It  prob 
ably  entered  his  ears  and  passed  through  them.  With  the  tiller 
in  his  grasp,  he  kept  the  boat  in  the  narrow  passage  up  the  creek, 
through  green  tracts  of  marsh  on  either  hand ;  and,  as  she  reached 
the  landing,  he  adroitly  brought  her  round,  so  that  he  leaped  with 
an  easy  spring  upon  the  shore,  sending  the  vessel  off  fully  ten  feet 
with  the  effort. 

"Why,  Harry  —  Harry,  I  say!  —  do  you  really  mean  to  leave 
me,  you  brute  monster  ?  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  never,  never,  never 
seen  you !" 

"  Good-night,  Zulieme,"  he  cried,  as  he  disappeared  in  the  thick 
ets  ;  "  go  to  Mrs.  Anderson's,  and  fey  r  nothing.  Do  n't  be  foolish. 
Good-night !" 

She  screamed  after  him,  but  he  made  no  answer.  He  was 
gone.  She  fairly  sobbed  out  her  aiHictions.  But  the  case  was 
past  remedy,  and  she  was  soon  reconciled.  Before  the  boat  had 
quite  emerged  from  the  creek  into  the  river,  she  had  got  up  her 
guitar,  and,  what  with  tuning  and  tinkling,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
oarsmen  —  one  of  whom  had  taken  the  tiller  on  the  captain's  de 
parture  —  she  contrived  to  forget  her  trials  long  before  the  little 
vessel  reached  her  destination.  Calvert  knew  her  resources. 

In  little  more  than  an  hour  after  he  had  left  the  boat,  she  had 
entered  the  lagune,  and  passed  on  to  the  obscure  landing-place,  in 
the  rear  of  the  courthouse  of  the  present  city.  Here  Franks  and 
Jack  Belcher  were  both  in  waiting.  They  both  received  the  fair 
Zulbme  with  the  deference  becoming  the  wife  of  their  superior. 
Franks  she  had  never  seen  before.  They  escorted  her  promptly 
to  the  dwelling  of  the  fashionable  lady,  who  was  in  waiting  to  wel 
come  her.  This  she  did  with  the  ease,  grace,  and  gayety,  of  a 
woman  of  fashion. 

"I'm  so  happy  to  see  you  !"  and  she  embraced  and  kissed  her, 


182  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

and  drew  her  into  the  brilliantly-lighted  parlor,  and  hurriedly 
devoured  her  with  all  her  eyes. 

"  Bless  me,  Zulieme,"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  rapture,  "  you  are 
the  prettiest  little  creature  —  quite  a  fairy  !  Why,  you  look  like 
a  mere  girl  —  a  child  :  nobody  would  ever  take  you  to  be  a  wife." 

"  Oh,  do  n't  call  me  a  child !"  said  Zulieme  impatiently.  "  Harry 
calls  me  a  child  and  a  baby,  and  treats  me  just  as  if  I  was  a  doll. 
Do  n't  you  do  so.  I  do  n't  like  it." 

"Oh,  I  speak  only  of  your  size  and  looks,  my  dear.  It's  no 
discredit  to  be  thought  young,  my  dear.  Everybody  knows  that 
we  grow  older  as  we  grow,  fast  enough ;  and,  for  a  woman,  it's  a 
great  thing  to  keep  young  as  long  as  possible.  For  my  part,  you 
could  not  please  me  better  than  by  fancying  and  calling  me  a 
girl." 

Zulieme's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"  The  great,  fat  chunk  of  a  creature  i"  was  her  unuttered  medi 
tation.  But  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  with  the  natural  facility  of 
a  fashionable  woman,  allowed  her  companion  no  chance  to  speak. 

"  What  a  sweet  face  is  this  of  yours,  Zulieme  —  so  very  delicate 
and  feminine  !  And  those  eyes  —  how  black,  and  how  they  dilate  ! 
And  your  hands  how  small,  and  your  feet !  You  are,  I  insist,  a 
little  fairy,  and  look  nothing  like  a  wife.  And,  by-the-way,  you 
are  not  a  wife  here.  Remember  that !  Of  course,  Calvert  has 
told  you  ?  You  are  to  be  the  Senorita  Zulieme  de  Montano.  of 
Florida.  You  will  make  a  great  sensation.  Our  young  dandies 
and  macaronies  are  very  fond  of  Spanish  beauties ;  and  you  will 
be  a  belle,  and  they  will  suppose  you  a  fortune !  Nobody  can 
think  you  a  married  woman.  How  long  have  you  been  married, 
my  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  long  time  —  more  than  a  year !" 

"  That  is  a  very  long  time.  Alas !  Zulieme,  I  have  been  mar 
ried  ten  ;  and  ten  years  of  married  life  is  an  eternity.  But,  come  ; 
we  must  have  supper,  and  then  to  sleep.  You  must  be  tired." 

And  she  wrapped  her  arms  around  the  unresisting  stranger,  and 
drew  her  into  the  supper-room,  exclaiming  as  she  went : — 

"  What  a  fairy  !  what  a  creature  for  the  dance !  Oh,  what 
dances  we  shall  have  !" 

"  And  I  so  love  dancing !"  murmured  Zulieme. 


OLD    GOWDEY.  183 


CHAPTER   XX. 

OLD    GOWDEY. 

"  IIow  much  of  wisdom  lies  in  a  good  heart  1 
And  so  we  work  by  nature  up  to  thought, 
If  we  are  honest,  truthful,  to  ourselves 
Steadfast  in  virtuous  action,  to  tho  laws 
Obedient,  and  to  God  resigned  in  all!" 

OP  "Oldtown" —  "old  Charlestown,"  the  nest-egg  of  the  pres 
ent  opulent  state  of  South  Carolina,  there  is  now  scarcely  a  single 
vestige.  All  is  level  Even  when  visited  by  our  rover  Calvert, 
it  was  a  place  of  ruins.  The  old  block-house  excepted,  hardly  a 
house  remained.  What  time  and  neglect  had  spared,  the  red  men 
destroyed.  They  had  applied  the  torch  to  all  that  the  white  set 
tlers  had  abandoned  —  not  much,  it  is  true  —  and  our  rover  tro$! 
among  beds  of  cinders  overgrown  with  weeds.  At  the  present 
day,  we  have  hardly  a  trace  of  the  locality.  The  whole  space  is 
occupied  by  fertile  plantations,  in  which  cotton  is  eloquent  in*  be 
half  of  civilization ;  even  if  civilization,  forgetting  its  wisdom  in 
its  philanthropy,  forbears  all  argument  in  behalf  of  cotton.  The 
future  compensates,  though  it  does  not  restore ;  and  we  have  no 
reason,  surveying  the  present  fertility,  to  deplore  the  overthrow 
of  the  old  experiment.  Calvert  is  not  philosopher  enough  to  an 
ticipate  the  wondrous  future ;  and  may  be  allowed  to  feel  some 
saddening  sensations  as  he  passes  over  the  ruined  site  of  the  infant 
colony.  We,  too,  even  at  this  day,  with  the  virgin  blooms  of  the 
cotton  in  our  eyes  even  as  we  write,  are  not  wholly  superior  to 
that  sentiment  which  deplores  that  the  nest  of  the  eagle  should  be 
abandoned  without  some  memorial  to  declare  whence  she  took  her 
flight !  We  recall  with  interest  the  feeble  colony  of  Sayle,  seek 
ing  safer  harborage  in  this  seclusion  from  provoking  foes  than 
Port  Royal,  where  he  first  sought  to  plant,  could  possibly  afford. 


184  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

And  here,  for  several  years,  the  little  settlement  grew ;  having 
charge  of  that  small  nest-egg  of  a  future  civilization,  which  was 
finally  to  develop  into  a  proud  and  potent  state !  Here,  from  this 
frail  hamlet,  we  have  seen  great  patriots,  and  sagacious  statesmen, 
and  mighty  warriors  emerge,  doing  great  things  in  various  sea 
sons,  and  rising  into  noblest  heroism  in  the  hour  of  storm  and 
danger.  And  we  can  not  forget,  and  should  not,  how  this  infant 
heart  beat,  in  this  lone  region,  with  all  those  pulses  of  courage, 
and  self-denial,  and  faith,  and  virtue,  which  men  were  decreed  to 
honor  in  coming  times  —  to  love  and  honor,  without  once  asking 
•where  these  beautiful  virtues  were  first  cradled  for  renown ! 

But  the  hour  passes.  Calvert  has  little  time  for  reflection  upon 
the  vicissitudes  of  place ;  and  we,  who  are  his  biographers,  must 
not  suffer  him  to  go  from  sight. 

He  glides  through  the  thicket,  he  winds  about  the  creek,  he 
reaches  the  knoll  where  the  pyre  still  blazes  to  guide  his  course, 
behind  which  looms  up  the  block-house,  no  longer  surrounded  by 
its  guardian  pickets.  These  are  all  gone.  The  square  fabric,  of 
hewn  and  mortised  logs,  well  put  together,  and  crenelled  for  mus 
ketry,  stands  alone  upon  the  knoll.  Time  has  begun  to  work 
upon  it  also,  though  the  hand  of  man  has  striven  to  neutralize  the 
rapid  progress  of  decay.  Were  it  daylight,  you  could  see  where 
new  timbers  have  been  let  in,  replacing  the  rotten ;  where  certain 
rents  have  been  patched  up  with  plank ;  showing  human  caution 
to  be  still  at  work. 

There  still  peeps  out,  as  you  see,  the  muzzle  of  an  iron  cannon, 
which  covers  the  whole  range  between  the  fortress  and  the  creek. 
Governor  Quarry  has  deemed  it  politic  to  set  this  outpost  in  some 
little  order.  It  serves  to  admonish  the  red  men  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and,  in  the  event  of  their  proving  troublesome,  it  will  give 
due  notice  to  the  townspeople  of  their  hostilities.  One  bellow  of 
that  old  six-pounder  will  rouse  the  citizens,  and  make  them  buckle 
on  their  armor ;  and  though  the  post  be  occupied,  at  present,  only 
by  a  single  man,  he  will  suffice  for  the  purpose  of  alarm. 

He  is  an  old  soldier  in  Indian  warfare  —  a  picked  frontier-man, 
with  a  passion  for  solitude  which  makes  him  prefer  the  encounter, 
single-handed,  with  the  savage,  rather  than  lack  in  the  proper 
elbow-room  which  he  loves.  B  at  he  shall  tell  us  all  about  him 
self. 


OLD    GOWDEY.  185 

There  were  no  signs  of  life  within  the  log-house  as  Calvert  ap 
proached  it.  It  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  square  tower  of  logs, 
some  forty  feet  on  every  hand.  On  the  side  facing  the  river,  at 
an  elevation  of  ten  feet,  the  gun,  raised  upon  a  platform  within, 
thrust  out  its  muzzle  through  a  porthole,  which  looked  down  upon 
the  creek.  Holes  were  pierced,  on  a  line  parallel  with  this  embra 
sure,  for  the  use  of  musketry.  The  entrance  was  upon  the  south, 
overshadowed  by  a  sort  of  barbacan,  from  which  the  garrison 
might  shoot  down  upon  assailants  at  the  gate  below.  This  gate 
was  of  heavy  slabs  of  oak,  plated  crosswise  with  other  slabs,  and 
almost  covered  with  the  spikes  which  were  used  to  bind  the  two 
faces  of  the  door  together.  The  tower,  for  such  we  may  call  it, 
was  some  twenty-four  feet  high ;  it  was  roofed  and  terraced,  a 
cement  of  tar  and  sand  having  been  employed  as  a  coating. 
Within,  the  building  consisted  of  two  stories.  In  the  lower,  occu 
pied  by  the  six-pounder,  Gowdey  did  his  cooking  on  the  ground ; 
never  troubling  himself  as  to  the  escape  of  the  smoke,  which  found 
its  way  through  the  porthole,  or  the  crenelling,  or  slowly  floated 
into  the  upper  story,  which  was  his  sleeping-place.  There  was 
no  chimney. 

But  Calvert  had  not  yet  found  his  way  in.  All  was  still  a8 
death  as  he  approached  the  entrance.  Here  he  drew  a  silver 
whistle  from  his  pocket,  and  sounded.  A  voice  from  the  barba 
can  called  out,  immediately  after,  the  single  word  "  Happy !"  to 
which  our  rover  answered,  "  Go  Lucky !"  Then,  assured,  Gow 
dey  descended,  and  the  heavy  gate  of  the  fortress  swung  wide  to 
admit  its  visiter.  It  was  carefully  closed  behind  him.  Uncover 
ing  a  dark-lantern,  which  served  only  to  make  the  darkness  visibL, 
Gowdey  seized  with  one  hand  the  wrist  of  Calvert,  and  conducted 
him  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder  by  which  they  were  to  mount  to  the 
upper  story.  This,  when  they  attained,  they  found  more  fully 
lighted  by  another  lantern,  the  rays  of  which  were  wholly  unseen 
from  without.  A  scuttle  in  the  roof,  open  always  in  clear  weather, 
afforded  the  inmate  light  and  air ;  for,  though  apertures  had  been 
pierced  around  the  room  for  the  use  of  firearms,  these  had  all 
been  covered  —  for  what  reason  we  know  not — with  a  strip  of 
planking.  This  could  be  easily  torn  off,  and  the  place  restored 
wholly  to  its  original  purposes. 

Our  solitary  had  seemingly  few  comforts.     His  bed  was  spread 


186  THE    CASSIQUB   OF   KIAWAH. 

upon  the  floor,  a  simple  mattress.  There  were  boxes  about  the 
room,  and  kegs,  and  odds  and  ends  of  simple  furniture,  stools  and 
benches.  A  rifle  and  long  ducking-gun,  pistols,  and  a  couple  of 
grains  for  fishing,  with  rods,  arid  nets,  and  lines,  and  tackle,  were 
to  be  seen  standing  in  the  corners  or  suspended  from  the  walls. 
There  was  one  great  oaken  table,  upon  which  stood  pewter  plates, 
knives,  forks,  and  coffee-pot.  But  we  have  no  need  for  further 
catalogue.  Enough  that  the  chamber  of  Gowdey  was  not  ill  fur 
nished  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  been  hunter,  fisherman,  trapper, 
and  Indian  trader  by  turns,  and  who  still  continued  the  two  former 
employments  with  all  the  zest  of  his  early  manhood. 

"  You  have  forgotten  me,  Gowdey,  I  suppose,"  said  Calvert,  as 
he  shook  the  hand  of  the  garrison. 

"  Forgit  your  honor?  That's  impossible  !  Certainly  not,  when 
Franks  sends  me  a  jug  of  Jamaica  every  now  and  then,  and  a  trit 
of  tobacco,  and  tells  me  that  they  come  faom  you." 

"  I  told  him  to  supply  you." 

"And  many  thanks,  your  honor.  The  Jamaica's  a  great  help 
to  a  vartuous  memory ;  and,  with  my  pipe  a-going,  it 's  won'erful 
how  much  a  man's  shet  eyes  kin  see,  deep  down  in  long-gone  sea 
sons.  Lord  love  you,  sir,  I  don't  think  I  kin  forgit  anything,  so 
long  as  there's  any  Jamaica  in  my  jug  and  tobacco  in  my  pipe ! 
Tobacco 's  a  most  blessed,  heavenly  invintion,  your  honor,  for  re 
freshing  a  bad  memory.  It's  so  quieting  to  the  heart,  and  brings 
such  sweet,  orderly  thinking  to  the  head!  It's  the  next  thing, 
sir,  to  a  famous  sleep,  with  a  dream  all  the  time  of  being  jist  where 
you  wants  to  be." 

"  Well,  Gowdey,  so  long  as  I  can  provide  it,  you  shall  have 
your  tobacco  and  Jamaica.  But  it's  so  long  since  we  had  met — " 

"  Going  on  three  years  only,"  interposed  the  other. 

"  And  three  years  are  an  eternity  in  this  world  of  strife  and 
change." 

"It's  nothing  to  an  old  man  of  seventy." 

"  Are  you  seventy,  Gowdey  ?" 

"  And  one  over,  your  honor." 

"  You  hardly  look  more  than  fifty." 

"No  —  perhaps  !  And  I  haven't  the  feel  of  more  ;  and  I  kin 
follow  a  buck  all  day,  and  be  spry  for  a  turkey  by  dawn,  jest  as 
well  now  as  if  I  wasn't  quite  fifty.  And  ef  'twant  for  this  stiff- 


OLD   GOWDEY.  187 

ness  of  the  arm" — lifting  his  left  —  "and  that's  another  sign  to 
make  me  remember  you — " 

"  What  about  your  arm,  and  what  had  I  to  do  with  it,  Gow- 
dey  ?" 

u  Why,  Lord,  sir,  'thas  never  been  the  same  arm  to  me  sence 
that  famous  shirk-fight — don't  you  remember,  sir,  in  Port-Royal 
harbor  ?  Why,  sir,  your  honor,  ef  I  never  supped  your  Jamaica, 
and  never  snuffed  your  tobacco,  that  arm  is  always  ready  to  'mind 
me  of  that  fight,  and  how  you  saved  me  from  the  jaws  of  that  de 
vouring  sea-divil.  I  would  have  been  but  a  mouthful  in  his  jaws, 
ef  it  hadn't  been  for  you!  And  it's  not  every  man  —  no,  sir, 
your  honor !  not  more  than  one  man  in  a  thousand  —  that  would 
jump  overboard  into  the  deep  sea,  to  help  a  poor  fellow  out  of 
sich  a  jaw  W7hen  I  thinks  over  that  time,  and  how  you  dived 
under  the  oeast,  and  cut  into  his  lights  and  liver  with  your  knife, 
jist  when  I  was  a-gasping  and  looking  for  my  death  every  minute, 
on  my  back,  and  onder  his  double  row  of  saws,  I  forgits  tobacco 
and  Jamaica,  and  thinks  of  you !  I  've  got  his  skin  presarved, 
there  in  the  corner,  as  a  bit  of  good  luck  to  fishermen." 

"  I  remember,  now  —  I  remember."  9 

"  I  reckon  you  do  !  How  kin  you  forgit  ?  That,  I  say,  your 
honor,  is  about  the  most  valiantest  thing  that  ever  you  did,  though 
they  do  cry  up  your  fights  with  the  Spaniards.  I  hear  you  licked 
a  great  don  out  of  his  breeches,  and  sunk  his  ship ;  but  that  fight 
with  the  shirk  was,  to  my  thinking,  the  most  desperatest  thing 
that  a  human  mortal  ever  did  do  in  his  sober  senses.  And  you 
jumped  overboard  to  do  it  when  not  a  man  stirred  a  peg ;  and, 
but  for  you,  I  was  clean  gene,  for  I  could  do  nothing  my  one  self, 
and  the  one  gripe  of  the  shoulder  that  the  brute  beast  give  me 
was  a  taste  of  the  etarnity  of  swallow  that  he  had  in  that  maw  of 
his'n  !  I  wouldn't  have  been  more  than  a  morsel  in  his  jaws 
after  that,  ef  'twant  for  you.  Oh,  I  sha'n't  forgit  it,  captain,  so 
long  as  I  have  a  feeling  of  crawling  flesh  about  me !" 

"  Well,  Gowdey,  we'll  say  no  more  of  that  escape,  which  was 
certainly  a  lucky  as  it  was  a  narrow  one ;  and  I  rejoice  at  my 
agency  in  the  matter,  as  at  one  of  the  few  good  actions  of  my  life. 
I  prefer,  now,  that  we  should  talk  of  other  matters,  more  agreea 
ble  to  yourself." 

"  Lord  love  your  honor !  as  ef  anything  could  be  more  grateful 


188  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

than  getting  out  of  the  shirk's  mouth,  though  by  the  skin  of  the 
teeth." 

"  Yes,  in  one  sense,  it  was  certainly  most  grateful  to  you,  as  in 
another  sense  it  was  to  me." 

"  In  all  senses,  your  honor." 

"  But  you  are  on  dry  land  now ;  and,  though  I  do  not  see  many 
signs  of  prosperity  about  you,  yet  I  prefer  to  think  of  you,  and 
should  like  to  hear  that  you  are  as  prosperous  on  dry  land  as  you 
are  safe." 

"Well,  your  honor,  that's  soon  said.  I'm  as  prosperous  as  I 
cares  to  be,  and  perhaps  more  so  than  I  desarve.  I  have  enough 
and  to  spare ;  and  that  reminds  me,  your  honor,  that  I  've  got  a 
little  cold  supper  here  for  you  —  some  pretty  fine  fish  and  a  can 
of  Jamaica — " 

"  Not  just  yet,  Gowdey.  Go  on  with  what  you  were  saying. 
You  have  enough — " 

"  And  to  spare  !  And  that,  I  may  say,  is  pretty  much  all  that 
a  man  needs  in  this  world,  and  perhaps  in  any  other.  I  get  a 
trifle  of  five  pounds  a  year,  which  keeps  me  in  powder  and  shot,  for 
keeping  up  this  old  block ;  and  I  airn  a  trifle  more  by  fishing  for 
the  townspeople ;  and  sometimes  I  pick  up  a  buck  or  a  turkey  in 
the  swamp,  or  a  brace  of  ducks  in  the  ponds,  and  that's  all  grist 
to  my  mill ;  and  then  I  do  a  little  job,  at  times,  for  Franks  and 
other  people,  and  they  pays  me  well :  and  altogether,  sir,  I  'm  as 
well  fed,  and  clothed,  and  liquored,  as  a  single  man  wants  to  be 
in  this  country,  where  the  cold  don't  bite  too  keenly,  and  where 
the  warm  comes  to  me  natural,  like  the  sun  to  the  corn." 

"  But  you  have  to  work  for  all  this,  Gowdey,  and  pretty  hard  work 
too ;  and,  at  your  age,  my  good  fellow,  the  heart,  head,  and  body, 
all  equally  ask  for  rest  and  ease." 

"  Lord,  your  honor  forgits  I  passes  for  only  fifty.  But  work, 
sir,  is  a  great  sweetener  of  bread  and  meat ;  and  to  airn  one's 
money,  makes  money  a  more  decent  and  respectable  thing  than 
ef  I  got  it  and  gave  no  sweat  for  it!  And  so,  you  see,  I  don't 
feel  the  age,  and  I  don't  fear  the  work  ;  and  I  find  myself  so  well 
as  I  am,  that  ef  I  was  to  be  better  off,  I'm  afeard  I'd  be  worse ! 
I'd  be  gitting  sick;  and,  ef  anything  could  scare  a  poor  sinner 
like  myself,  it 's  the  idee  of  being  sick  —  to  lie  on  one's  back  and 
to  want  water,  when  every  j'int  in  my  body  would  prefer  Jamaica ; 


OLD    GOWDEI.  189 

to  swallow  doctors'  stuff,  when  the  venison-ham,  hanging  from  the 
wall,  seems  to  cry,  '  Come  make  a  steak  of  me,  and  be  young 
agin  !'  And  to  think  that,  maybe,  I  should  git  sick  with  nobody 
to  give  me  water,  or  physic  either,  and  then,  Lord  knows  what ! 
That's  the  consideration,  your  honor,  that  sometimes  pops  into 
my  head,  and  sets  it  all  over  aching  with  the  thinking  of  what 's 
to  happen." 

"  Ay,  and  sickness  will  come,  Gowdey." 

"When  sickness  comes  to  me,  your  honor,  I'll  make  up  my 
bed,  and  wrap  up,  and  lie  down  for  the  last  sleep !  I  sha'n't  take 
physic,  and  I  kin  do  without  the  water  for  awhile,  and  no  venison- 
steak  will  do  me  good." 

*'  Nay,  my  good  fellow,  that  will  be  next  door  to  suicide." 

"  I  do  n't  think  so,  your  honor.  For  you  see,  living  the  sort  of 
life  I  live,  there 's  nothing  but  old  age  to  make  me  sick,  and,  for 
that  disease,  Death  is  the  only  doctor.  1  'm  an  active  man,  and 
does  well  in  the  open  air ;  work  strengthens  me  after  a  good  sweat, 
and  my  food  is  always  sweet,  and  I  never  over-eat  and  never  over 
drink  myself;  and  what's  to  make  me  sick  but  old  age?  I  never 
was  sick  an  hour  in  my  life,  and  I've  kept  moving  always.  It's 
this  moving  always  and  moving  fast,  your  honor,  that  keeps  a  man 
hearty.  Sickness  kaint  catch  him.  It's  your  slow  people  that 
the  fever  catches  and  the  agy  shakes ;  and  it  only  shakes  'em  to 
show  how  they  ought  to  shake  themselves!  That's  my  doctrine, 
your  honor,  and,  ef  it's  true,  you  see  that,  when  I  takes  to  my 
bed,  1  '11  need  no  doctoring.  Pay-day  's  come,  and  Lord  send  me 
the  feeling  to  believe  that  I  kin  square  accounts  with  my  eternal 
Creditor,  and  git  an  honorable  discharge  from  all  my  debts !" 

"  Yet,  Gowdey,  there  must  be  something  melancholy  in  this 
solitary  way  of  life.  Have  you  no  people  —  no  kindred?" 

"  Not  a  living  human  as  I  knows  on  ;  not  a  chick  nor  a  child. 
Ef  I  had,  your  honor,  they  should  be  here,  and  I  'd  work  the  mus 
cles  harder,  but  they  should  lie  on  a  softer  bed  than  mine.  But 
I  haint  got  'em,  and  I  don't  miss  'em.  When  I  was  a  younger 
man,  I  did ;  and  then  I  felt  how  hard  it  was  to  be  alone.  But 
I  'm  usen  to  it  now.  Men  who  live,  like  me,  all  their  lives  in  the 
woods,  gits  out  of  liking  for  what  you  call  society.  They  Tarn  to 
love  woods,  and  thicks,  and  trees,  and  rivers,  and  lakes ;  and  they 
gits  a  quick  ear  for  the  cries  of  birds  and  beasts ;  and  they  some- 


190  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

how  finds  company  in  very  small  and  sometimes  strange  matters. 
The  woods  and  trees,  and  even  the  waters,  git  to  be  friends  after 
awhile  ;  and  you  talks  to  them,  and  you  think  and  believe  that 
they  talks  back  to  you.  A  cast-away  sailor  on  a  desarted  island 
will  git  to  an  acquaintance  with  every  rock  and  tree  that  he  sees 
daily,  and  Tarn  to  love  'em,  and  want  no  better  company.  And 
so,  an  old  woodman  like  myself —  why,  sir,  here  in  this  old  log- 
castle,  I  'm  a-convarsing  all  day,  at  the  lookout,  with  something  or 
other,  and  studying  the  set  of  a  tree,  and  the  shape  of  a  cloud,  and 
the  shades  of  green  in  the  woods  as  the  sun  and  winds  pass  over 
Vm,  so  that  I  make  out  a  sort  of  argyment  for  them,  and  myself 
too.  But  there's  more  than  that,  your  honor.  There 's  the  com 
pany  of  blessed  spirits,  that  are  always  about  UP.  night  and  day, 
doing  something  —  we  do  n't  know  what  or  how  —  to  help  us  on, 
arid  keep  our  hearts  up,  and  make  our  road  easy." 

"  Spirits?     Did  you  ever  see  a  spirit?" 

"  Yes,  your  honor ;  I  'm  sure  of  it,  though  I  do  n't  know  for 
sartain  that  one  ever  did  cross  my  sight.  But  I  've  felt  it.  I 
feels  very  sure  that  they  keep  my  company.  There 's  something 
tells  me  so.  It's  in  my  heart  or  head;  it's  in  all  my  veins;  it's 
my  holy  belief.  And  sometimes  I  think  I  hear  voices  ;  and  there 
are  sounds  that  stir  me  up  tiJl  my  heart  beats  like  a  strong  watch ; 
and  my  hair  rises  naturally,  without  any  thinking  of  mine  —  with 
out  any  warning :  so  that  I  know  that  they  are  about  me." 

"  But  you  have  seen  nothing  ?" 

"  Well,  I  kaint  say  yes,  your  honor,  but  I  kaint  say  no.  I  've 
never  had  a  spirit  to  stand  before  me,  and  face  me  outright ;  but 
I  've  felt  'em  flash  beside  me,  when  I  've  been  in  the  deep  thick, 
jest  like  a  flash  of  a  wing — jest  like  a  bird  passing." 

"  'T  was  a  bird,  no  doubt." 

"  No,  your  honor !  My  gun  p'ints  naturally  at  the  flash  of  a 
bird's  wing,  right  or  left ;  and  you  know  1  'in  an  old  hunter,  and 
ought  to  know  what 's  a  bird  and  what 's  not.  There  's  not  a  red 
skin  in  the  woods  but  will  tell  you  Ben  Gowdey  knows  every  bird 
that  flies.  But  I  hear  sounds  and  I  see  shapes,  when  it's  grow 
ing  dusk  ;  and  at  night,  in  this  old  log-castle,  I  kin  hear  whispers 
in  the  very  room,  when  its  deep  midnight ;  and  —  but,  Lord  love 
your  honor,  it 's  easier  to  believe  than  to  prove ;  and  ef  you  were 
to  ask  me  all  day,  I  could  only  tell  you  that  I  believe  for  myself, 


OLD   GOWDEY.  191 

but  kaint  make  the  thing  clear  to  you.  But  it  stands  to  reason. 
I  had  a  father  and  a  mother,  like  every  other  man ;  and  I  had 
brothers  and  sisters,  but  it  so  happened  that  I  hardly  ever  know'd 
one  of  'em  ;  they  all  died  off  when  I  was  not  knee-high.  And  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  they  were  goodish  people  enough  — 
poor,  and  sinning  now  and  then,  as  is  the  natural  case  with  poor 
folks,  put  to  it  pretty  hard  by  a  hard  world ;  but,  as  the  world 
goes,  I  reckon  they  were  goodish  people.  And  the  little  brothers 
and  sisters,  not  six  years  old,  what  was  to  make  them  bad  ?  Well, 
they  all  naturally  feels  a  feeling  to  help  me  on  smoothly,  and  to 
make  me  journey  safely ;  and  so,  1  reckon,  they  are  about  me. 
And  I  'm  glad  to  think  so,  for  it  does  me  good,  and  keeps  me  as 
good  as  human  flesh  will  let  me  be  !  And  I  'm  sure  it's  they  that 
flash  across  my  sight ; ,  and  they  whisper  in  my  room  ;  and,  I  tell 
you,  I  've  had,  more  than  a  hundred  times,  a  something  whisper 
ing  in  my  ear,  'Don't!'  —  and  sometimes,  jest  as  often,  another 
whispering  that  said,  '  Do  !'  —  and  I  know  it  that,  jest  as  I  listened 
to  them  voices,  I  got  on  smooth  and  safe,  and  felt  the  better  for  it." 

"  I  can  't  quarrel  with  your  faith,  GowTdey,  and  still  less  am  I 
disposed  to  find  fault  with  your  philosophy." 

"  Oh  !  't  aint  philosophy,  your  honor.  I  'm  not  conceited  enough 
for  that.  It 's  only  the  reason,  and  the  common  sense,  and  the 
natural  truth." 

"  Perhaps  so.  Certainly,  if  such  are  the  fruits  of  their  interfe 
rence  with  you,  the  spirits  deserve  this  privilege  of  visit.  But, 
are  you  not  disturbed  by  other  sounds?  Do  not  the  Indians 
sometimes  rouse  you  up  at  midnight  ?" 

"  Not  they !  They  'd  feel  it  in  all  their  bones,  and  they  know 
it.  They're  mortally  afear'd  of  the  six-pounder;  and  they  all 
know  what  a  nice  rifle-bead  I  kin  draw  upon  red  skin  or  white, 
ef  they  come  too  close  to  the  garrison.  But  they  'd  like  to  do  it, 
ef  they  could,  and  so  I  'm  good  at  watch,  and  knows  my  time ; 
and  am  jest  as  good  a  scout  in  the  woods  as  the  best  of  them." 

"  Are  any  of  them  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"  They  're  beginning  to  come,  and  some  are  never  gone.  Some 
of  them,  the  Stonos  and  the  Sewees,  live  almost  altogether  on  the 
salts.  The  Yamasees  keeps  a-moving  up  and  down  in  the  winter, 
but  gits  back  to  the  Ashepoo  and  Pocotaligo,  and  all  along  the 
salts,  in  fish-time.  All  these  people  a'most  belongs  to  the  great 


102  THE    CASSIQUE    OP    KIAWAH. 

Katahbah  nation,  and  the  tribes  come  and  go,  according  to  the 
ieason,  from  the  seacoast  to  the  mountain-country  and  back  agin. 
There 's  a  sort  of  trade  between  them.  The  seashore  Injuns  carry- 
up  shells,  and  clay  pots  and  pans,  and  cane-reeds  for  arrows,  and 
gits  flintstones  for  hatchets  aud  arrow-heads,  and  war-clubs,  £rom 
the  up-country  people,  in  the  way  of  barter." 

"  Have  you  seen  many  this  season  ?" 

"  Not  many.  But  they  're  about,  I  hear,  and  coming  along 
daily.  In  a  month's  time  or  so,  the  woods  will  be  thick  with  'em, 
all  along  the  rivers.  And  I  'm  sorry  to  see  it." 

"  What !  they  lessen  your  chances  at  the  game  —  thin  the 
game — " 

"  It 's  not  that,  your  honor ;  there's  a  plenty  for  all  of  us.  But 
I  'm  afear'd  the  Injuns  are  guine  to  be  troublesome  agin.  They 
have  not  been  whipped  bad  enough  yet,  and  never  was  there  any 
people  so  apt  to  forget  a  whipping  soon.  They  were  pretty  sassy 
before  they  went  off  last  autumn,  and,  from  what  I  then  seed,  I 
was  dubous  of  what  was  to  come.  From  what  I  hear,  I  reckon 
there  '11  be  some  of  the  mountain-tribes  coming  down  along  with 
'em  this  season ;  and  ef  they  do,  we  may  calculate  to  hear  the 
warwhoop  somewhere  about  the  settlements  this  summer.  Well, 
now  you  see,  jest  at  this  time,  when  they  're  most  sassy,  comes  a 
new  council,  and  they  've  got  the  notion  in  their  heads  that  all  these 
redskins  are  a  sort  of  natural  Christians  that  only  wants  a  leetle 
sprinkling  to  become  convarts  to  our  religion,  and  grow  into  hon 
est,  sober,  home-keeping  Christians.  But  water  aint  going  to  do 
it,  your  honor  —  no,  nor  soap  and  water,  nor  all  the  preaching 
from  London  down  to  Vera  Cruz.  It's  whipping,  and  hard  work, 
and  Taming  how  to  eat  good  bread  and  meat  well  cooked,  and  git- 
ting  a  taste  for  vegetables  as  well  as  venison :  this  is  the  way  to 
teach  a  savage  how  to  git  religion.  The  cook-pot  is  a  great  con- 
\arter  of  the  heathen  —  that  and  the  whipping-post." 

"  Rather  novel  doctrines,  Gowdey.'' 

"  Oh  !  I  knows  the  beast,  your  honor,  and  kin  count  every  spot 
on  his  hide.  These  council-men,  they  knows  nothing.  Here 's  a 
new  man,  a  Colonel  Berkeley,  a  nevey  of  the  Lord  Berkeley, 
they  say,  and  he 's  bought  ever  so  much  land,  jest  above  us,  some 
seven  or  eight  miles  up;  and  they've  made  him  a  lord,  too  —  a 
cassique,'  they  call  it,  which  is  Injun  for  a  'lord;'  and  he's  one 


OLD   GOWDEY.  193 

of  the  council-men;  and  he  says  they've  been  too  hard  upon  the 
Injuns;  and  he's  brought  out  orders  that  we're  to  captivate  and 
sell  no  more  of  them,  but  to  have  treaties  with  'em,  and  trade  with 
'em,  and  treat  'em  like  brothers.  And  pretty  brothers  he'll  find 
them!  He's  having  them  at  his  plantation  that  he's  a-settling, 
and  he's  feeding  them ;  and  he'll  have  enough  of  'em  before  he's 
done  with  'em.  They'll  feed  on  him  all  they  can,  and  he'll  never 
content  'em  so  long  as  he's  got  anything  left ;  and  when  he  won't 
give  any  more,  they  '11  take ;  and  the  first  fine  chance,  when  they 
sees  that  his  barony 's  full  of  good  things,  they  '11  make  a  midnight 
dash  at  'em,  and  he'll  never  know  his  danger  till  he  feels  their 
fingers  in  his  hair.  They'll  raise  his  scalp  for  him  before  they're 
done  with  him.  But  you  know  the  varments  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  And  has  he  no  notion  of  all  this  ?" 

"No  more  than  a  child  !  I've  talked  over  the  whole  thing  to 
him,  and  told  him  what  he  may  expect.  But  he  says  it's  all  our 
fault ;  that  we  treated  the  Injuns  badly,  and  made  'em  what  they 
are;  that  they're  'Nature's  noblemen,'  and  only  need  good  treat 
ment  to  be  good  fellows  and  good  Christians.  He's  sat  here  with 
me  by  the  hour,  talking  over  the  matter  —  and  jest,  as  I  may  say, 
talking  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  His  head  is  full  of  projects. 
He 's  always  at  something  new.  Now  he 's  for  draining  all  these 
swamps  —  he  says  they  '11  make  the  best  meadows  in  the  world  ; 
then  he's  for  great  cattle-ranges  and  sheepwalks ;  and  for  making 
wine  out  of  the  grapes,  and  says  he  kin  supply  all  England  with 
wine  better  than  they  git  from  France.  Well,  the  upshot  of  all 
will  be,  that  he'll  break,  and  go  to  smash,  and  the  Injuns  will  take 
his  scalp  and  burn  his  barony.  They'll  first  begin  upon  his  sheep 
and  cattle,  and  he's  got  a  smart  chance  of  both  already  from  Eng 
land  ;  and  then  they'll  finish  with  his  family.  They'll  eat  and 
burn  him  up." 

"  But  does  he  maintain  no  watch  —  no  garrison  ?' 

"Yes:  he's  got  some  raw  English  laborers  with  him;  and  the 
carpenters  are  at  work,  and  he's  got  his  block-houses  and  we'pons- 
of-war ;  but  he  don't  know  the  savages  how  they  work  a  traverse, 
and  they'll  all  be  surprised  and  cut  off.  And  it's  a  mighty  sad 
thing  to  think  upon,  your  honor;  for  this  Colonel  Berkeley  seems 
a  mighty  fine  sort  of  person  —  honorable,  and  smart  enough,  and 
full  of  work  ;  he 's  got  a  hand  for  a-most  anything,  and  is  jest 

9 


194  1HE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

about  as  eager  at  a  new  beginning  as  any  boy  tliat  ever  broke 
loose  out  of  school.  I'm  to  git  him  an  Injun  lad  for  a  hunter; 
and  I  've  agreed  for  one,  the  son  of  an  old  chief  of  the  Sewees  — 
old  Mingo,  as  we  call  him,  but  the  Injuns  call  him  Cussoboe. 
He 's  the  chief  of  that  tribe.  I  expect  him  every  day.  The  colo 
nel  wanted  to  hire  me  to  do  his  hunting ;  but,  at  my  time,  your 
honor,  I  won't  go  into  any  new  contracts.  I  'm  for  paddling  my 
own  canoe." 

"  It  is  to  this  barony  of  Colonel  Berkeley  that  I  'm  to  go  to 
night,  Gowdey,  and  you  must  direct  me  how  to  find  it." 

"  I  '11  guide  your  honor,  if  you  please.  It  ?s  easier  to  do  that 
than  to  direct  you." 

"  Have  you  a  horse  ?" 

"  As  sleek  a  marsh  tacky  as  you  ever  crossed." 

"  Franks  sent  you  a  horse  for  me  ?" 

"  He 's  here  and  safe  —  hid  and  hoppled  in  the  thick,  alongside 
of  my  own." 

"  Well,  Gowdey,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  your  guidance.  How 
Jong  will  it  take  us  to  get  there  ?" 

"  A  short  two  hours." 

"  Then,  if  we  start  three  hours  before  day,  it  will  answer.  Now,, 
understand  me.  This  is  a  secret  expedition.  I  am  not  going  to 
see  Colonel  Berkeley,  and  do  not  wish  to  be  seen  by  him  or  any 
of  his  people.  I  wish  to  hover  about  for  awhile,  concealed  closely, 
seeing  everything  if  possible,  myself  unseen.  He  is,  you  are 
aware,  a  member  of  the  privy  council,  and  exercises  a  large  influ 
ence  upon  the  deliberations  of  that  body.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  I  am  compelled  to  keep  dark." 

"  Yes,  I  Ve  heard  !  —  that  bloody  fight  with  the  Spanish  don ! 
Well,  for  my  part,  I  only  wish  you  had  sunk  a  hundred  of  'em. 
Those  bloody  Spaniards  are  the  natural  enemies  of  all  true  Eng 
lishmen ;  and  the  king  and  lords-proprietors  don't  know  what 
mischief  they're  a-doing,  when  they  tie  up  the  hands  of  our  val 
iant  cruisers.  But  they  hain't  ruled  you  out  of  law  altogether, 
captain." 

"  You  may  earn  five  hundred  pounds,  Gowdey,  by  showing  tc 
the  governor,  or  this  Colonel  Berkeley,  where  to  lay  hands  upon 
me!" 

"  And  I  'd  airn  hell  and  damnation  along  with  the  money,  your 


OLD    GOWDEY. 

honor!  Surely,  sir,  your  honor  believes  m  the  honor  of  Ben 
Gowdey  ?" 

"As  in  my  own  —  and  thus  it  is  that  you  see  me  here  to 
night." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,"  grasping  and  squeezing  his  guest's  hand, 
"  and  your  visits  and  honor  to  this  poor  old  hunter !  We  must 
drink  together  on  that,  your  honor;  and  now  for  that  bite  of 
supper  1" 


1!K>  THE   CASSIOUE   OF    KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

NIGHT-RIDE    TO    KIAWAH. 

"  Thou  dark  grove, 

That  has  been  called  the  scat  of  melanchrvy, 
And  shelter  for  the  discontented  spirit  — 
Sure  thou  art  wronged  ;  thou  seem  'st  to  me  a  place 
Of  solace  and  content."  —  THOMA.S  MAY  —  The  Heir. 

WE  shall  say  nothing  of  the  supper.  It  was  clean,  of  coursej. 
«ind  simple ;  the  Jamaica  was  employed,  and  its  virtues  acknowl 
edged  —  though  neither  Calvert  nor  the  hunter  professed  to  be 
bottle-holders.  While  they  ate,  they  talked  ;  that  is  to  say,  Gow- 
dey  talked :  and  when  did  you  ever  meet  old  hunter  yet,  or  old 
fisherman,  that  was  not  fond  of  his  own  music,  except  when  on 
duty  ?  At  such  a  time,  the  hunter  and  fisherman  are  as  sacredly 
silent  as  if  in  waiting  for  the  delivery  of  an  oracle.  They  re 
venge  themselves,  subsequently,  for  this  reverential  abstinence, 
when,  having  no  game,  they  only  seek  a  victim  ! 

But,  now,  Calvert  encourages  Gowdey  to  speak.  He  wiles 
him,  gently  and  gradually,  to  the  subject  of  Colonel  Berkeley, 
the  cassique,  who,  by-the-way,  is  something  of  a  curiosity  to  our 
hunter.  He  admires  his  energy,  his  courage,  the  boldness  of  his 
projects,  the  dignity  of  his  bearing,  and,  so  far  as  he  knows  it,  the 
worth  of  his  character.  His  manliness  and  unaffected  simplicity 
are  especially  themes  for  his  admiration.  He  has  no  vulgar 
pride. 

"  He  will  sit,  jest  as  you  do,  captain,  for  hours,  with  an  old 
hunter  like  myself,  and  ask  questions,  and  listen  quietly,  and 
never  take  pains,  every  now  and  then,  to  let  you  see  that  he 
thinks  himself  the  better  man!  And,  though  I  think  he's  quite 
wild  in  some  of  his  calculations,  and  rather  more  likely  to  do 


NIGHT-RIDE   TO    KIAWAH.  197 

harm  than  good — as  when  he  thinks  to  tame  these  red  savages, 
and  convart  these  marshes  into  grand  pasturages,  and  make  wine 
out  of  these  grapes  to  beat  all  France  —  yet  he's  so  manful  and 
courageous  in  it  all,  that  I  can 't  help  liking  him.  And,  another 
reason,  he's  all  the  time  trying  to  do!  It  is  n't  to  make  money. 
Ef  you  believe  me,  your  honor,  I  do  n  't  think  this  cassique,  as 
they  call  him,  cares  a  copper  whether  he  gits  anything  out  of  all 
his  workings  for  himself.  But  he  looks  out  upon  the  marsh,  and 
says,  'If  I  could  conquer  it  from  the  sea,  and  make  it  green  with 
grass  !'  And  he  says,  '  Think  of  all  these  forests,  Gowdey,  sup 
porting  their  thousands  of  sheep !'  And  then  he  looks  at  the 
grapevines  everywhere,  and  cries  out,  'All  Europe  shall  drink  of 
the  wine  of  Carolina !'  Them 's  grand  idees,  your  honor,  and 
them  's  the  idees  of  Colonel  Berkeley.  He  's  got  no  sort  of  little 
meanness  in  all  his  nature.  He  's  for  taking  the  rough  world, 
jest  as  you  see  it,  and  making  it  smooth  for  man  !  He  's  a-blun- 
dering,  it 's  true  ;  for  you  see  he  comes  to  Carolina,  not  knowing 
much  about  it,  with  all  his  grand  English  idees  ;  and  he  kain't  git 
quite  right  till  he  1'arns  all  about  the  actual  sarcumstances  of  the 
country.  But  give  him  time,  and  he  '11  do.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  ?  Here  he  's  imported  thousands  of  English  brick,  to  build 
his  houses  and  chimneys,  and  his  tiles  of  clay,  into  a  clay-country, 
where  there  's  the  best  clay  in  the  world,  and  more  firewood,  so 
I  've  hearn  himself  say,  in  this  single  county,  than  in  all  Great 
Britain!  When  he'd  seen  the  Injun  clay  pans  and  pots,  he 
kicked  the  piles  of  brick  at  the  landing  with  his  feet,  and  said, 
4  What  a  fool  I  was  to  bring  these  things  here !'  He  '11 1  'arn,  but 
what's  the  expense?  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  no  less  than  his  scalp." 

"  But  have  you  not  warned  him  of  the  treachery  of  the  In 
dians?" 

"Till  I'm  tired ;  but  he'll  have  to  Tarn  them,  jest  as  he  1'arned 
the  clay  and  bricks.  And  they  'II  soon  teach  him.  Nothing  but 
downright  war  with  the  redskins  will  save  him.  And  who  knows 
but  they  may  begin  on  him?  They're  jest  as  apt  to  begin  with 
the  man  they  feed  on,  as  on  any  other  person." 

"  He  is  making  a  great  place  of  his  barony,  then  ?" 

"  Give  him  five  years,  and  it  '11  be  famous." 

"  Have  you  seen  his  family  ?" 

"Yes,  sir — his  wife,  and   one  child.     They've  had  but  one. 


198  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

But  her  mother 's  a-living  with  him,  and  there  's  a  girl  about 
thirteen — " 

"  Her  sister  —  I  suppose.' 

"  I  reckon  ;  but  I  do  n't  know.     They  call  her  Grace.'* 

Calvert  involuntarily  nodded  his  head  in  the  affirmative.  And 
here,  for  awhile,  the  conversation  flagged.  It  was  resumed,  some 
what  abruptly,  by  the  hunter : — 

"You're  asking  me,  your  honor,  'bout  the  cassique.  Now, 
there's  one  thing  that's  struck  me  ever  sence  I  first  sot  eyes  on 
him  ;  and  that  is,  that  he  looks  mighty  much  like  you.  I  thought 
of  you  the  moment  I  seed  him.  He 's  not  so  tall  as  you,  and  I 
reckon  he 's  five  years  older ;  but  you  've  got  the  same  complex 
ion,  the  same  sort  of  eyes  and  face  generally ;  and  you  're  both 
quick  as  a  breeze,  and  always  a-doing!  And  when  you  walk, 
there's  the  same  sort  of  lift  in  the  shoulders  ;  but  it's  mostly  when 
you're  a-setting  that  I  sees  the  likeness.  You  sort  o'  square  off 
broadly  when  you  set ;  and  your  hands  rest  on  your  thighs ;  and 
you  set  your  head  pra'd ;  and  your  eyes  look  through  the  man 
you're  a-talking  to;  and  your  mouth  is  shut  close  —  pressed  tight, 
I  may  say,  as  if  you  was  a-thinking,  '  I  may  have  to  fight  this 
man  yet ;'  and  you  are  apt  to  speak  sudden,  quick,  onexpectedly ; 
and  then  the  speech  comes  short,  and  the  voice  is  deep,  as  if  it 
come  from  the  chest,  deep  down,  and  it  sounds  like  a  bell ! 
There's  a  great  deal,  mighty  like,  that  you've  got  at  ween  you; 
and  ef  he 's  got  the  heart  that  you  've  got,  then,  ef  ever  you  git 
into  a  quarrel,  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  the  looker-on,  for  I  loves 
you  and  I  likes  him :  for,  as  sure  as  a  gun,  there  'd  be  one  death, 
and  prehaps  two,  from  the  fight.  He'll  fight  like  blazes,  I  reckon, 
for  he  gathers  himself  up  all  the  time,  as  ef  he  was  going  into 
battle.  Everything 's  in  airnest  that  he  does.  I  reckon  ef  he 
was  to  go  into  push-pin,  he'd  made  a  real  life-sort  of  business  out 
of  it." 

"I  shall  be  curious  to  see  and  know  him,  Gowdey ;  but  that  s 
impossible,  just  now,  when  he's  of  the  council,  and  I  am  under 
ban  of  law  as  a  pirate." 

"  Does  they  give  you  that  name,  captain  ?  And  only  for  licking 
the  Spaniards !  Blast  'em,  for  the  bloodiest  fools  !  as  ef  every 
Spanish  ship  that  we  blowed  out  of  water  was  n't  a  help  to  us  in 
these  poor  colonies. 


NIGHT-RIDE   TO    KIAWAH.  199 

**  A  nation  only  goes  to  ruin,  Gowdey,  under  the  management 
of  cowardice,  ignorance,  and  treachery ;  and  when  a  king  himself 
betrays  his  own  people,  Gowdey,  to  say  nothing  of  his  own  dig- 
nityr  then  the  disaster  enures  to  the  whole  race,  and  to  the  most 
distant  times." 

"  And  is  it  the  king,  your  honor?" 

"Ay,  the  king!  who,  corrupt  himself,  corrupts  justice,  corrupts 
his  chief  men,  corrupts  the  people ;  makes  office  a  fraud ;  makes 
nobility  a  shame  ;  makes  a  people  bankrupt  of  honor  as  of  fortune. 
But  England  is  too  much  the  care  of  Heaven  to  suffer  this  rule 
of  imbecility  very  long ;  and,  I  tell  you,  this  king  will  be  removed 
—  will  die  by  the  hands  of  God  or  the  hands  of  man,  or  there  will 
be  another  bloody  revolution,  such  as  brought  his  father  to  the 
block,  to  relieve  his  people  from  the  dangers  of  his  misrule.  God 
will  interpose  before  it  be  too  late  !  I  am  sure  of  this  as  if  I  had 
seen  it ;  for  England  is  too  important  to  the  world's  safety  and 
progress,  not  to  find  a  special  Providence  interposing  for  her  be 
half,  in  a  condition  of  so  much  doubt  and  danger.  I  could  feel 
tempted  to  prophesy  that  the  hand  of  Fate  is  upon  him  even 
now !" 

"And  I'm  sure  I  sha'n't  care  how  soon !  The  fact  is,  captain, 
when  a  man  gits  to  rambling  over  a  great  forest-country  like  this, 
he  begins  to  think,  '  How's  it  that  we're  to  have  a  furrin  sover 
eign  ?'  and  then  he  gits  a  step  further,  and  axes,  '  What 's  the  use 
of  having  a  king  at  all  ?'  It's  mighty  sartain  that  a  king  of  Eng 
land,  living  cl'ar  away  over  that  great  breadth  of  ocean,  ain't  of 
no  sort  of  use  to  us  here ;  and  the  use  of  a  king,  I  reckon,  or  of 
any  sort  of  officer,  is  jest  about  the  first  question  that  a  reasonable 
white  man  ought  to  ax  anywhere.  It's  the  question  that  we  puts, 
you  know,  when  we  ax  after  the  man:  'What's  he  good  for  — 
what  kin  he  do  ?  Kin  he  fight,  or  counsel,  or  plan,  or  build,  or 
work,  or  trap,  hunt,  fish — work  in  some  way —  doing  for  himself 
and  other  people  ?'  Oh,  a  new  country,  like  ours,  is  jest  the  sort 
of  school  where  we  gits  rid  of  ridiculous  notions  about  governors 
and  men.  It 's  not  what  the  man  wears,  but  what  he  does.  And 
no  crown  upon  his  head,  arid  no  gold  stick  in  his  hand,  no  epau 
lette  on  his  shoulder  or  star  upon  his  breast,  or  beautiful  ribands 
and  buttons,  can  save  a  poor  skunk  of  a  fellow  from  disgrace,  that 
ain't  got  the  right  sort  of  stuff  of  manhood  in  him.  But  I  'm  a 


200  THE    CASSIQUB    OP    KIAWAH. 

poor  old  fellow,  that  ain't  nobody  but  a  hunter  and  fisherman  — 
that  prehaps  ought  not  to  talk  about  such  mighty  idees" 

"  Mighty  ideas  you  may  well  call  them,  Gowdey,  and  such  a3 
are  destined  to  shake  the  world  some  day.  But  the  time  is  not 
yet.  They  are  ideas  which  will  grow  here,  in  this  wild  country ; 
are  the  natural  ideas  of  such  a  country,  and  can  hardly  take  root 
anywhere  else.  —  But,  is  it  not  almost  time  for  a  start  ?  I  would 
have  you  conduct  me  within  sight  of  this  cassique's  barony,  arid 
then  leave  me.  I  shall  find  the  way  back  to-morrow  night,  and 
shall  expect  you  to  carry  me  over  to  the  town  in  your  boat.  Of 
course,  everything  must  be  secret  —  to  ourselves." 

"I  know,  sir — all  right!  Say  the  word,  and  I  will  git  the 
horses.  But  ef  you  are  to  be  out  there  all  day,  lying  close,  and 
seeing  nobody,  how  will  you  git  provision  ?" 

The  cruiser  showed  a  snug  wallet  which  he  carried  under  his 
hunting-shirt.  His  costume,  by-the-way,  had  been  changed  to  that 
of  the  American  woodsman. 

"All  right,  your  honor  !  I  see  you  don't  forgit  the  commissa 
riat." 

Gowdey  went  out,  and,  soon  returning,  reported  the  horses  to 
be  in  readiness.  A  stoup  of  Jamaica  concluded  the  session,  after 
the  usage  of  the  country  ;  and  some  three  hours  before  the  dawn, 
the  two  were  upon  the  road.  You  are  to  understand,  however, 
that,  letting  out  Calvert  first,  then  bolting  securely  the  massive 
oaken  door  upon  him,  Gowdey,  with  rope  and  tackle,  let  himself 
down  from  the  upper  story.  By  a  mysterious  process,  the  secret 
of  which  he  never  suffered  out  of  his  own  keeping,  the  rope  was 
concealed  from  sight  immediately  after,  and  not  available  to  any 
one  who  might  wish  for  it  in  his  absence.  Gowdey  prided  him 
self  very  much  upon  his  machinery. 

And  thus  making  his  house  secure,  he  mounted  his  marsh 
tackey,  and  led  the  way  through  the  forests.  The  trail  was  a 
blind  one,  affording  "  a  short  cut"  to  a  point  which  might  have 
been  reached  by  a  more  open  but  more  circuitous  route.  The 
one  chosen  was  at  once  shorter  and  more  secret.  They  rode  in 
silence ;  policy  dictating  forbearance  to  the  inveterate  tongue  of 
the  old  hunter,  while  our  cruiser  preferred  to  indulge  in  medita 
tions  of  a  nature  too  delicate  to  share  even  wit)  the  most  trust 
worthy  comrade. 


NIGHT-RIDE   TO    KIAWAH.  201 

And  while  Govvdey  rode  on  before,  as  guide,  Calvert  discussed 
in  his  own  mind  the  subjects  of  their  recent  conversation.  His 
thought  naturally  reverted  to  the  account  given  of  his  brother. 

"  This  was  not  the  wont,"  he  mused,  "  of  Edward  Berkeley ! 
His  habit  was  wont  to  be  calm,  quiet,  subdued ;  grave  rather  than 
earnest ;  thoughtful  rather  than  intense  ;  fond  of  revery  rather  than 
action.  Plow  could  this  change  be  wrought  in  him  so  suddenly, 
in  the  short  space  of  three  years  ?  Can  he  be  the  same  person  ? 
Can  it  be  my  brother  whom  all  these  men  describe  to  me?  —  so 
like,  yet  so  unlike  ?  I  can  not  doubt  that  it  is  he  !  But  how 
unlike  the  man  he  was,  ere  this  dark  cloud  passed  between  us ; 
ere  we  were  separated  by  this  terrible  chasm  which  we  may  not 
leap,  even  in  eternity !  Just  so  long  are  we  separated.  For,  if 
the  affections  are  to  survive  the  grave ;  if  the  precious  sentiments 

—  those  which  bring  life  and  verdure  to  the  soul  —  pass  with  it 
into  the  spheres  of  the  future ;  if,  there,  the  beloved  ones  remain 
to  us,  still  loving  and  beloved  —  what  must  be  the  future  to  us  — 
to  him,  to  me  —  but  separation  for  ever  ?     And  she  !  —  shall  I 
behold  her  in  other  worlds,  nor  claim  her  as  my  own,  even  as  in 
this  ?     Shall  the  wrongs  done  us  here,  not  be  righted  there  ?    Shall 
he  there  find  a  law,  and  exercise  a  power,  which  shall  still  work 
for  us  denial  and  bitterness,  as  here?  —  the  forfeiture  of  all  that 
precious  hope  on  which  both  of  us  fed  so  fondly? — that  hope 
which  was  never  to  bear  its  fruit !     Shall  there  be  no  atonement, 
no  redress,  for  this  wrong,  this  robbery,  this  wo  ?" 

And  the  strong  man  groaned  aloud  unconsciously,  as  the  bitter 
flood  of  memory  and  thought  rolled  its  deep  waters  over  his  soul. 

"  Anything  the  matter,  captain  ?" 

Calvert  roused  himself  at  the  question,  and  shook  himself  free 
of  his  revery. 

"  No,  Gowdey  —  only  such  matter  as  makes  a  sad  thought  too 
strong  for  a  sad  heart !" 

"  Ah !  well,  your  honor,  there's  no  medicine  in  one's  pocket  for 
the  heart  of  another.  It's  only  to  be  a  man,  and  that  means  one 
who  knows  how  to  carry  a  camel's  load  on  a  poor  pair  of  human 
shoulders.  A  great  secret,  I  reckon,  ef  one  could  1'arn  it !  But 

—  psho!  p^ho!" — lowering  his   voice  —  "I  see   a  light  yonder 
in  the  woods.     It  looks  like  a  camp-fire.     Ef  you'll  let  me,  cap 
tain,  I'll  jest  git  down,  hitch  '  Hop-o'-my-Thumb'  to  this  sapling, 


202  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

and  take  a  peep  at  that  fire.  You  know  I  'm  a  sort  of  s^out  of  the 
garrison  when  I'm  on  this  kind  of  night-riding." 

He  had  alighted  and  hitched  his  nag  ere  he  had  done  speaking. 

"  Ef  you  '11  jest  wait  a  bit  here,  captain,  I  won't  keep  you  long ; 
but  it's  needful  to  you  as  well  as  me  that  we  should  see  about 
this  'campment  here.  We  may  have  to  lead  our  horses  for  a  bit, 
or  turn  out  of  the  track  into  the  bushes  t'other  side,  so  as  not  to 
mak';  the  ears  of  bad-tempered  outliers  open  too  big  as  we  go." 

The  consent  of  the  rover  was  anticipated  by  his  guide,  who 
soon  disappeared  in  the  bushes  ;  and,  while  he  "  scouted,"  gradu 
ally  nearing  the  fire  which  had  excited  his  curiosity,  if  not  alarm, 
the  thoughts  of  Calvert  carried  him  back  to  the  subject  upon 
which  he  had  been  musing  a  few  minutes  before. 

"  What  has  caused  this  change  in  Edward  Berkeley  ?  What 
but  guilt !  It  is  the  demon  that  has  fastened  upon  his  soul.  It 
is  conscience  which  is  busy.  He  knows  that  he  has  done  me 
wrong.  He  has  basely  taken  advantage  of  my  absence,  to  usurp 
my  rights.  His  passions  have  got  the  better  of  his  truth,  of  broth 
erly  love,  of  justice  and  honor ;  and,  these  gratified,  he  begins  to 
feel  the  stings  and  arrows  which  are  to  avenge  my  wrongs  !  Hence 
these  labors,  these  wild  speculations,  this  incessant,  restless  excite 
ment,  which  make  the  wonder  of  all  who  see  !  He  shall  feel 
more,  ere  his  experience  ends.  He  shall  feel  life  pall  upon  him, 
and  excitement  wear  away,  and  hope  lost,  and  love  a  fiend,  and 
passion  finally  a  hell !" 

Something  correct,  but  not  all  correct,  Calvert.  It  may  be  that 
Edward  Berkeley  shall  thus  suffer,  but  not  so  much  from  the  goad 
of  conscience.  At  present,  his  true  tormentor  is  the  demon  of 
unrest  —  born,  certainly,  of  hopes  unsatisfied ;  of  torments  felt ; 
of  doubts  and  anxieties ;  of  a  dream  unrealized ;  but  not  of  the 
sense  of  a  wrong  done  to  a  brother !  No  !  no  !  —  he  knows  not 
that  yet.  Let  us  acquit  him  of  that !  He  is  not  so  much  sinning 
as  sinned  against ;  he  has  been  deceived  ;  is  not  willingly  a  de 
ceiver.  But  let  us  not  anticipate. 

Harry  Calvert  sat  moodily  upon  his  horse,  waiting  the  return 
of  Gowdey,  but  hardly  conscious  that  he  waited.  His  chin  rested 
upon  his  breast ;  his  eyes  were  closed ;  his  thoughts  striving  in 
chaotic  provinces  in  which  he  could  as  yet  find  no  light.  He  was 
roused  by  the  voice  of  Gowdey : — 


NIGHT-RIDE   TO   KIAWAH.  £03 

"  As  I  thought,  captain  !  Injuns  —  a  few  Sewees,  or  Cusso- 
boes  —  a  small  party.  I  made  'em  all  out,  and  they  never  guessed 
it.  Ha  !  ha  !  Give  me  a  white  man,  after  all,  for  good  scouting. 
It 's  curious,  captain,  one  of  this  party  is  the  chief  of  the  Kiawahs 
—  old  Cussoboe;  and  ef  anybody  had  a  raal,  natural  right  to  be 
called  '  Cassique  of  Kiawah,'  it's  him  ;  for  he's  been,  to  my  knowl 
edge,  high  chief  of  all  the  river,  and  this  part  of  the  country,  which 
is  the  Kiawah  country,  for  a  matter  of  ten  years,  and  it  may  be 
twenty.  Well,  here's  Colonel  Berkeley,  that  comes  here  under 
English  authority,  and  buys  the  land  from  under  the  red  king's 
foot,  and  takes  away  his  very  title !  The  two  chiefs  will  meet  to 
morrow,  I  reckon,  on  a  sort  of  treaty,  and  I  know  something  about 
it.  Old  Micco  Cussoboe  —  that  is,  King  Cussoboe  —  is  on  his 
way  to  the  barony  now,  I  reckon.  He's  jest  stopped,  like  a  cun 
ning  savage  as  he  is,  to  eat  and  drink  up  all  he's  got,  and  get  a 
new  supply  out  of  the  white  men.  They're  all  sound  asleep  now, 
but  you'll  find  'em  all  wide  awake  by  daylight,  painting  them 
selves  up,  and  putting  on  their  bravest  coats,  and  hats,  and  feath 
ers,  to  make  a  show  when  they  come  before  the  white  chief. 
'T would  be  a  fine  thing  ef  you  could  see  it  all;  and  maybe  you 
will,  for  it's  jest  as  like  as  not  that  the  white  cassique  will  receive 
his  red  brother  in  the  open  air ;  though  that 's  not  the  court  way 
among  the  Injuns,  as  long  as  they  've  got  a  house  to  hold  council 
in.  And  now,  your  honor,  if  you  say  so,  we  '11  make  another  start 
to  be  jogging." 

"  Go  on,  Gowdey." 

And  they  rode  as  before,  Gowdey  now  silent,  and  Calvert  medi 
tative,  and  still  on  the  same  subject : — 

"Yes,  we  are  alike  —  and  Heaven  spare  us  the  meeting  as 
enemies  !  It  is  as  this  keen-sighted  hunter  says  :  such  a  meeting 
will  be  the  death  of  one  or  both !  Let  us  not  think  of  it.  JNo, 
Edward  Berkeley,  though  you  have  done  me  this  wrong — though 
you  have  made  me,  as  yourself,  the  victim  of  a  never-ceasing  ago 
ny  of  unrest  —  let  there  be  no  strife  between  us !  I,  at  least, 
must  grow  madder  than  I  feel  now,  before  I  lift  fratricidal  hand 
at  your  bosom !" 

We  sum  up  thus  a  long,  wandering  train  of  thought  and  feeling, 
in  which  our  rover's  fancy  conjured  up  nothing  but  spectres  of 
wo  and  evil. 


204  THE    CASSIQUF   OP    KIAWAH. 

The  precincts  of  the  barony  of  Kiawah  were  at  length  reached. 
There  were  the  openings  of  the  forest ;  there  the  settlements  — 
there  the  forest,  black  in  its  density  and  depth  of  green.  Gowdey 
pointed  out  the  several  localities  in  detail,  as  far  as  they  could  be 
noted  in  the  imperfect  starlight.  Some  twelve  or  fifteen  acres  had 
been  cleared,  an  occasional  group  of  oaks  alone  excepted.  At 
right  angles  stood  four  block-houses,  cornering  the  clearing.  These 
were  to  be  points  of  defence,  made  of  squared  logs,  pierced  for 
musketry,  yet  designed  as  lodgings  for  the  workmen.  In  the  cen 
tre  was  the  mansion,  a  framed  house  on  brick  pillars,  with  wings 
of  logs,  in  which  the  family  resided.  The  rest  was  rapidly  ad 
vancing  to  completion.  The  whole  square  was  to  be  picketed ; 
the  outhouses  and  offices,  occupying  a  line  between  the  several 
corners,  to  be  pierced  in  like  manner  for  musketry,  yet  susceptible 
of  use  for  ordinary  domestic  purposes;  the  doors  and  windows 
looking  into  the  court,  which  was  a  sort  of  place  de  la  garde,  a 
plaza  d'armas,  but  answering  for  the  purposes  of  court,  and 
grounds,  and  garden.  Here  and  there  a  very  fine  old  oak,  or 
pine,  or  cedar,  sometimes  clumps  of  each,  had  been  suffered  to 
remain.  Everything  as  yet  was  rude,  and  in  a  perfectly  chaotic 
state.  Log-heaps,  piles  of  brush,  remained  unburnt;  piles  of 
brick  and  lumber  obstructed  the  pathways.  Everything  denoted 
progress  and  performance,  but  in  just  that  state  when  the  eye 
looks  dissatisfied  over  the  whole  disordered  spectacle.  The  region 
chosen  for  the  settlement  was  a  long,  narrow  ridge,  running  down 
to  the  river,  where  it  terminated,  some  three  miles  distant,  in  a 
bluff.  The  front  of  the  estate,  upon  the  river,  occupied  little  more 
than  a  mile ;  but  it  gradually  stretched  on  either  hand,  as  the  sur 
vey  ran  inland — as  may  be  supposed,  when  we  know  that  the 
barony  comprised  twenty-four  thousand  acres. 

"  Enough,  now,  Gowdey.  I  see  the  ground,  and  know  where  I 
shall  harbor.  To-morrow  night,  if  nothing  happens,  look  to  see 
me  some  two  hours  after  nightfall,  when  I  shall  expect  you  to 
paddle  me  across  the  river.  You  need  remain  no  longer.  Good 
night  !" 

"  Rather,  good-morning,  your  honor,  for  the  day  will  soon  be 
upon  us.  "Well,  sir,  as  you  say  so,  I'll  leave  you.  I'll  look  for 
you,  and  be  ready.  You  've  got  a  good  hiding-place,  and  I  know 
that  you've  the  experience  to  make  use  of  it.  I  don't  fear  that 


NIGHT-RIDE   TO    KIAWAH.  205 

anything  will  happen.  As  for  me,  I  mean  to  j'ine  that  Injun 
camp.  I  know  'em  all,  and  I  reckon  the  cassique  here  will  want 
my  help  to-morrow  as  an  intarpreter.  I  'm  good  at  their  lingo ; 
'  and  I'm  a  leetle  curious  to  know  what's  going  on.  I  reckon  it's 
about  an  Injun  hunter.  The  cassique  wanted  me  to  do  his  hunt 
ing,  but  I  've  got  too  old  to  follow  any  man's  whistle.  This  old 
chief,  Cussoboe,  wants  his  son  to  1'arn  English  ways ;  and  he 
agreed,  some  time  ago,  that,  when  they  came  back  from  the  hills, 
the  boy  should  hunt  for  the  cassique.  It's  gitting  quite  common 
for  the  big  men  to  have  Injun  hunters.  But  the  idee's  not  a  good 
one.  I  see  trouble  in  it.  But  that's  not  my  lookout.  After  I've 
given  good  warning,  a  shut  mouth  is  the  sensible  notion.  And  so, 
your  honor,  I  leave  you ;  and  God  prosper  your  s'arch,  whatever 
it  may  be  !" 

And  so  they  parted  —  Calvert  seeking  the  forest,  where  he  hid 
his  horse,  and  Gowdey  the  camp  of  Cussoboe. 


206  THE    CASSIQUE   OP    KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER. 

*'  The  grace  of  fortune  still  must  have  its  foil : 
The  bliss  may  come  in  showers :  but  there  shall  be 
Ever  a  bitter  poison  in  the  cup 
Shall  qualify  the  working  to  delight ! 
We  shall  have  palaces  too,  and  goodly  ones ; 
But  there  still  sits  a  mocker  at  the  board, 
To  shake  a  skinny  finger  at  our  pomp, 
And  give  our  proud  mortality  to  shame." 

IN-DOORS  or  out  of  doors  ?  Which  way  shall  we  look  ?  With 
out,  the  cassique  is  busy  with  the  workmen.  You  hear  the  griding 
of  the  saw,  the  clink  of  the  hammer,  the  heavy,  dull  stroke  of 
the  axe.  And  every  sound  declares  for  life  —  the  life  of  civiliza 
tion  usurping  the  domain  of  the  savage. 

Within  !  Ah,  within  !  Is  it  life  here  ?  It  is  the  peculiar  prov 
ince  of  the  woman.  And  why  not  life,  even  though  there  be  no 
strife,  no  bustle  ?  Life  asserts  itself  no  less  sensibly  and  keenly 
through  pain  and  silent  suffering  than  through  the  clamorous 
voices  that  speak  for  human  performance. 

Wealth  is  here,  no  doubt.  But  the  realm  is  a  simple  one.  All 
the  appliances  and  appurtenances  are  rude.  Compared  with  the 
European  houses  of  our  settlers,  the  contrast  is  almost  ludicrous. 
Log-houses  —  squared  logs,  it  is  true  —  a  great  waste  of  timber — 
massive  enough  —  looking  like  rude  castles  —  show,  nevertheless, 
but  uncouthly  in  European  eyes,  reared  as  our  cassique  and  his 
family  have  been,  in  the  grand  old  homes  of  England.  And  this 
central  fabric,  which  is  designed  to  be  especially  well  finished  — 
in  which  our  Carolina  nobleman  means  that  his  family  shall  dwell 
—  what  is  it  but  a  plain  structure  of  pine  and  cypress  ?  Large 
enough,  certainly  —  four  rooms  on  a  floor ;  a  great  hall  of  recep- 


MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  207 

tion,  thirty  by  twenty-four ;  dining-room,  of  the  same  dimensions  ; 
a  grand  passage  through  the  centre  ;  a  parlor  for  the  ladies,  some 
what  smaller  than  hall  and  dining-room  ;  and  a  library  opposite  ! 
Chambers  above,  in  a  second  story ;  wings  contemplated,  giving 
other  chambers.  Well,  yes,  from  a  distance,  you  will  say  this  is 
a  stately  mansion,  of  good  dimensions  for  comfort ;  and,  if  you 
have  seen  none  but  the  American  world,  it  will  be  a  big  fabric, 
rather  grand  of  size  and  ample  of  accommodation,  and  supposed 
to  represent  very  superior  wealth. 

The  enclosure  which  is  staked  off,  partly  fenced  —  picketed, 
rather  —  confirms  this  idea.  And  there  is  wealth,  the  standards 
of  the  country  only  considered ;  and  our  cassique  has  prepared  to 
lodge  his  family  well,  with  equal  dignity  and  comfort.  We  are 
to  suppose  a  certain  portion  of  the  dwelling-house  to  be  habitable, 
if  not  finished.  Some  of  the  rooms  are  lined  and  panelled  with 
cypress-plank ;  the  chimneys  are  all  built ;  the  furniture  is  there, 
all  fresh  from  England,  of  a  rich,  massy  character  —  hardly  in 
keeping,  however,  with  the  otherwise  naked  simplicity  of  the 
dwelling.  Clearly,  the  dwellers  here  have  need  to  congratulate 
themselves  that  their  lot  has  fallen  upon  pleasant  places. 

But,  are  they  happy  ? 

Even  this  question  may  be  thought  an  impertinent  one.  We 
are  of  those  who  think  that  we  have  got  very  little  to  do  with 
happiness.  We  have  a  certain  destiny  to  fulfil,  certain  duties  to 
perform,  certain  laws  to  obey,  and  vicissitudes  to  encounter,  with 
such  resources  of  courage  as  we  have  —  energy,  industry,  and  pa 
tient  submission,  with  working ;  and,  these  laws  complied  with, 
we  are  to  trouble  ourselves  no  further  about  the  compensative  in 
our  lot.  This  is  a  matter  which  must  be  left  to  God.  He  will 
settle  our  accounts,  and  make  his  award ;  and,  whether  this  be 
happiness  or  suffering,  is  not  a  concern  of  ours,  though  it  makes  a 
wonderful  difference  in  the  degree  in  which  we  may  relish  life. 

Indeed,  so  certainly  is  all  this  true,  that  our  instincts  all  recog 
nise  it ;  and  though  we  are  told  that  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  in 
our  own  way,  is  an  inalienable  right,  yet  nobody  actually  proposes 
it  to  himself,  at  any  time,  as  the  object  of  his  endeavor.  Men  do 
not  deliberately  seek  happiness  at  any  time.  They  seek  money, 
seek  power,  seek  indulgence,  the  gratification  of  one  passion  or 
another ;  but  no  one  proposes  to  himself  any  scheme  by  which  he 


208  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

contemplates  the  realization  of  Eden  or  Arcady.     We  all  aim  at 
very  inferior  objects,  and  perhaps  rightly. 

And  how  should  we  pursue  an  object,  in  the  possession  of 
which  we  have  no  guaranty  ?  Can  there  be  any  happiness  in  ill 
health,  in  perpetual  toil  and  anxiety,  under  the  caprice  of  fortune  ; 
the  caprice  of  wind  and  weather ;  the  knowledge  that  the  most 
precious  hopes  and  affections  lie  everywhere,  at  every  moment, 
exposed  to  the  spoiler — to  death,  disease,  loss,  pain,  denial,  defeat 
—  those  hungry  wolves  that  prey  upon  humanity  —  those  mocking 
phantoms  that  delude  it  to  despair ! 

No  !  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  happiness.  He  who  pursues 
it  pursues  a  phantom.  He  who  finds  it  becomes  a  coward,  per 
petually  dreading  death  and  disaster.  A  certain  object  —  lawful, 
proper  to  our  sympathies,  natural  to  our  condition,  our  strength 
and  resources  —  this  is  what  we  may  and  should  reasonably  pur 
sue  ;  and  this  is  attainable  by  all  those  who  bring  honest  purpose, 
and  judicious  aim,  and  manly  working,  to  bear  upon  the  object  of 
desire.  Even  Love  must  be  moderate  in  its  aims,  and  we  must 
not  expect  too  much  from  marriage.  Men  are  not  heroes  all,  nor 
women  angels  ;  and  if  the  parties  will  only  bear  themselves  toward 
each  other  like  honest  men  and  women ;  be  faithful  and  fond,  with 
reasonable  expectations  of  care  and  reverence,  honor  and  respect ; 
gentle  solicitude  on  the  one  hand  and  manly  protection  on  the 
other  —  we  shall  perhaps  find  it  a  goodly,  comfortable  world 
enough :  nor  need  we  then  trouble  ourselves  about  the  ideal  con 
dition  which  we  figure  under  the  word  "  happiness."  The  vulgar 
mortal  finds  this  to  resolve  itself  into  mutton  one  day,  and  roast 
beef  and  plum-pudding  another ;  in  the  exhibition  of  new  toggery 
and  trinkets ;  or,  as  Zulieme  Calvert  was  apt  to  do,  in  the  fanciful 
twirling  of  very  flexible  limbs  to  the  inspiriting  entreaties  of  tam 
bourine  and  fiddle! 

But  were  our  cassique  and  his  women-folk  as  happy  as  they 
might  be,  in  the  circumstances  of  their  condition,  and  under  the 
qualifying  definitions  of  happiness  which  we  have  given  ? 

That  is  the  question  ! 

Well,  you  have  heard  of  the  cassique,  and  what  people  thiik 
Of  him.  You  have  seen  him  already  in  one  brief  interview.  Look 
at  him  now,  among  yonder  workmen.  We  show  him  to  you  a 
week  in  advance  of  Cal vert's  visit.  See  the  energy  with  which 


MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  209 

he  throws  himself  into  labor :  see  the  frightful  intensity  with  which 
he  concentrates  will,  and  thought,  and  muscle,  upon  the  tasks  be 
fore  him ;  watch  the  eager  impulse,  the  stirring  mind,  the  restless 
impatience ;  hear  the  sharp,  stern  voice  of  authority,  angry  be 
cause  dull  labor  is  slow  to  comprehend,  and  a  sullen  mood  stub 
bornly  resists  instruction.  Note  him,  as  he  hurries  to  and  fro  — 
now  on  foot,  now  mounted  —  hurrying  this  way,  straining  that ; 
and  now  busy  with  the  builders,  now  with  the  hewers ;  and  anon 
with  the  ploughmen,  as  they  drive  their  shares  through  the  newly- 
cleared  lands  —  striving,  by  dint  of  extra  exertion,  to  repair  the 
loss  of  previous  time — the  business  of  "  breaking  up"  having  been 
begun  rather  late  in  the  season.  And  now  observe  him,  as,  in  a 
state  of  physical  exhaustion,  he  flings  himself  down  upon  the  na 
ked  earth,  trying  to  rest  the  animal  man,  while  the  mental,  with 
keen  eye  and  impatient  thought,  chafes  at  the  demands  of  the 
poor  body  for  needful  hours  of  repose  ! 

"  Well,"  you  will  be  apt  to  say,  "  at  least  this  man's  nature  is 
satisfied.  He  is  working  in  his  vocation,  con  amore ;  he  is  one 
of  those  men  who  can  not  help  but  work  —  who  derives  his  enjoy 
ments  from  his  employments — the  greatest  mortal  secret."  And, 
to  a  certain  degree,  you  will  resolve  correctly. 

But,  follow  him  now,  as  he  starts  up  and  passes  into  the  dwel 
ling.  Note  his  countenance  as  he  enters  the  house.  See  how  it 
alters  in  aspect.  You  have  seen  it  wear,  just  now,  a  variety  of 
changes  in  a  brief  space  of  time.  There  was  authority  asserting 
itself ;  there  was  thought  engaged  in  a  problem ;  there  was  eager 
zeal  growing  angry  at  some  vulgar  retardation ;  there  were  quali 
ties  of  mind  and  temperament,  all  declaring  themselves  by  sudden 
and  startling  transitions. 

But  these  disappear  the  moment  he  penetrates  the  dwelling. 
We  now  see  that  a  sudden  cloud  has  passed  over  his  brow,  which 
declares  for  some  deeper  working  of  the  more  secret  nature. 
There  is  sadness  as  well  as  solemnity  in  that  cloud.  There  is  a 
gloomy  shadow  upon  that  spirit  which  the  intellect  does  not  offer 
to  disperse.  It  is  a  settled  expression  of  anxiety,  verging  on  ap 
prehension,  for  which  the  mind  prepares  no  medicine. 

And  you  note  that,  when  out  of  doors,  and  in  contact  with  his 
workmen,  his  carriage  was  rapid,  eager,  and  without  that  reserve, 
that  staid  dignity  and  measured  movement,  which  vain  men  usu- 


210  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

ally  maintain  when  dealing  with  the  vulgar ;  yet,  the  moment  he 
approaches  his  dwelling,  his  movements  become  slow,  his  carriage 
more  erect ;  he  seems  to  brace  himself,  with  effort,  as  for  an  en* 
counter.  He  has  put  on  his  armor  of  pride  and  dignity  as  if  for 
the  meeting  with  a  foe. 

Can  this  be  the  case  ?  And  what  are  the  relations  of  this  lord 
with  his  family  ? 

Let  us  look  within.     Let  us  eee  how  these  women  carry  them 
selves,  ere   the   cassique  appears.     There  is  a  tell-tale  look  or 
action,  a  tone,  a  word,  which,  where  there  is  a  lurking  sorrow, 
will  declare  something  of  the  secret ;  and  women  are  better  tell 
tales  of  the  heart  than  men. 

They  occupy,  mother  and  daughter,  the  parlor  in  the  rear  of 
the  dining-room,  which  has  been  assigned  especially  to  their  use. 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Constance  Masterton  is  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  and,  though  carefully  dressed,  is  not  remarkably  well  pre 
served.  She  may  have  been  a  pretty  woman  in  her  youth.  She 
has  few  traces  of  beauty  now.  The  skin  is  sallow  and  wrinkled,  the 
cheeks  sunken  ;  she  is  lean  and  tall,  and,  but  for  a  piercing  black 
eye,  still  full  of  fire,  keen  and  searching,  the  sharpness  and  severity 
of  her  visage  and  the  turbid  yellow  of  her  skin  would  make  her 
absolutely  revolting. 

She  is  a  woman  of  dignity.  She  is  stately  in  her  air  and  man 
ner,  and,  as  we  have  said,  studious  of  her  dress.  She  carries 
herself  haughtily.  She  has  a  hard,  hard  heart;  her  training 
has  been  that  of  a  convention  which  gave  the  heart  no  chance 
her  manners  have  all  been  formed  artificially.  She  knows  no  na 
ture  inconsistent  with  the  rules  of  her  circle.  She  has  had  na 
life  but  that  of  society.  She  was  one  of  those  ridiculous  people 
who  claim  always  to  be  "in  fociety"  —  to  be  "the  society"  —  and 
who  affect  to  despise  all  other  classes  —  who  do  not,  in  fact,  ac 
knowledge  any  other  as  in  existence.  She  believes  only  in  her 
own  "charmed  circle"  —  one  which  the  natural  man  would  never 
esteem  a  charming  one.  Books  are  not  among  her  objects.  She 
never  read  one  in  her  life.  Music  she  recognises  only  as  essen 
tial  to  the  proprieties  of  the  household,  even  as  cushions  and  sofa 
are  regarded  as  a  material  part  of  the  furniture.  She  knows 
no  more  of  mut-ic  than  a  mule.  Her  tastes  were  limited  to  cos 
tume  simply,  and  this  was  prescribed  by  a  French  artiste.  Such 


MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  211 

was  she  in  her  English  home.  There,  she  was  poor  withal,  in 
§pite  of  all  this  social  pretension ;  and  in  that  melancholy  situation 
in  which  the  social  vanity  is  ever  at  a  painful  conflict  with  the 
conventional  necessity.  She  was  a  schemer,  accordingly ;  and 
never  did  poor  demagogue,  with  large  appetite  and  small  wits,  la 
bor,  with  more  vulgar  agents  of  trickery,  for  office,  than  did  she 
to  maintain  the  social  position  from  which  poverty  had  compelled 
her  to  descend.  In  the  exercise  of  this  faculty,  she  had  shown 
herself  sufficiently  dexterous.  She  had  shuffled  off  a  younger 
son  with  nothing,  and  contrived  to  secure  the  elder,  with  a  fortune, 
for  her  eldest  daughter.  She  had  large  practical  wisdom ;  was  a 
woman  of  shrewdest  policy. 

And  that  daughter  ?  —  Olive  Berkeley ! 

As  a  general  rule,  dear  reader,  we  should  expect  the  children 
to  inherit  the  aspect,  the  habits,  tastes,  and  characteristics,  of  those 
from  whom  they  descend  —  those,  at  least,  by  whom  they  were 
trained  and  educated.  But  the  contradictions  between  children 
and  parents  sometimes  confound  us.  We  might  reconcile  them, 
possibly,  were  we  in  possession  of  all  the  facts.  But,  in  the  pres 
ent  case,  one  portion  of  our  criteria  escapes  us.  Olive  Masterton 
had  a  father,  but  of  him  we  know  nothing.  Was  she  like  him  ? 
Perhaps !  She  was  certainly  very  unlike  her  mother. 

But  her  mother  had  educated  her,  and  the  poet  tells  us  — 

"Just  as  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree's  inclined." 

Another  more  certainly  inspired,  says :  "  Train  up  a  child  in  the 
way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old  he  will  not  depart  from  it." 
And  so,  too,  we  may  say,  generally,  of  those  who  are  trained  up 
in  the  way  in  which  they  should  not  go.  But  there  are  cases  — 
individual  and  rare  exceptions,  we  admit  —  in  which  Nature  shows 
herself  paramount  to  all  other  influences,  whether  of  training,  or 
tyranny,  or  simple  education.  We  suspect  that  Olive  Masterton 
was  one  of  this  description.  Nature  certainly  had  done  not  a 
little  to  neutralize  the  misteachings  of  the  mother. 

Physically,  the  daughter  was  quite  unlike  her  mother.  She 
was  tall,  it  is  true,  but  in  this  respect  father  and  mother  may  have 
been  alike.  In  all  other  respects,  they  had  little  in  common. 
The  mother  was  a  brunette  —  dark  of  complexion  and  of  eye. 
And,  though  called  "  Olive" —  why  we  know  not  —  the  daughter 


212  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KTAWAH. 

was  a  blonde,  perfectly  fair,  of  transparent  skin  ;  light,  lively  blue 
eye ;  and  the  most  delicate  auburn  hair,  that  floated  wild,  in  free 
ringlets,  over  head  and  bosom.  She  was,  as  is  natural  to  this 
temperament,  inclined  to  be  full  and  plump ;  but  there  were  good 
reasons  why  she  was  not  so  at  the  date  of  our  history.  Something 
of  care  and  thought,  of  anxiety  and  disappointment  —  the  heart, 
briefly,  had  been  at  conflict  with  the  temperament ;  and  she  is 
now  thin,  pale  —  very  pale  —  and  spiritless.  The  change  had 
been  very  great  in  eighteen  months.  Before  that  time,  there  had 
been  few  creatures  of  the  same  class  who  could  be  described  as 
more  perfectly  beautiful  —  more  round,  and  plump,  and  fair,  bright, 
and  blessing,  and  elastic  —  a  thing  of  joy  and  beauty.  There 
were  certainly  fewer  still  whom  we  can  conceive  more  loving  or 
loveaUe  in  character.  Gentle,  generous,  ingenuous  —  frank  and 
impulsive  —  graceful  and  accomplished  —  fair  and  beautiful  — 
Olive  Masterton  was  as  unpresuming  as  if  she  had  not  a  single 
one  of  these  excellences  —  as  if  her  mother  had  never  taught  her 
one  lesson  of  her  own.  Convention,  and  her  proud,  ridiculous 
mother,  had  equally  failed  to  spoil  the  liberal  handiwork  of  Na 
ture,  however  much  they  may  have  succeeded  in  perverting  it 
from  its  sweet  and  proper  destination.  Olive  was  one  of  those 
who  could  and  did  pass  through  the  infected  district  with  a  talis- 
manic  power,  carrying  away  no  single  taint  upon  her  pure,  white 
garments. 

But  you  see  that  something  has  gone  wrong  with  Olive.  She 
is  a  wife  and  a  mother  —  young  wife,  younger  mother  —  yet,  as 
you  see  her  there  before  you,  not  eighteen  months  a  wife,  you 
doubt  if  she  be  a  bride ;  you  do  not  doubt  that  she  is  not,  in  any 
sense,  a  happy  one  ! 

She  sits  at  the  tambour-frame  —  at  one  of  those  pretty,  trifling, 
slight  sorts  of  work,  so  grateful  to  the  feminine  nature,  so  graceful 
in  feminine  fingers,  which,  under  a  pretext  of  employment,  affords 
opportunity  for  reveries  —  which  may,  or  may  not,  be  pleasant! 
She  seems  unconscious  of  her  occupation.  Her  eyes  are  half- 
closed  ;  her  whole  air  is  listless  and  indifferent ;  it  is  very  evident 
that  her  thought  is  far  away,  and  not  satisfied  with  what  it  finds 
in  its  wanderings.  Her  face  is  not  merely  pale  —  it  is  marked 
by  a  deadly  marble  whiteness ;  her  cheek  is  colorless ;  her  form 
thin  to  leanness.  "When  she  looks  rp,  at  the  voice  of  her  mother 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  213 

her  large  blue  eyes  dilate  with  a  vacancy  of  gaze  which  pains  you 
to  behold.  Young  wife,  young  mother,  but  with  no  young  heart, 
or  hope,  or  fancy.  Her  glance  tells  you,  if  not  her  cheek,  that 
she  has  survived  all  those  sweet  treasures  of  her  youth. 

Her  mother  watches  her  with  an  eager,  sharp,  dissatisfied  sort 
of  interest.  She,  too,  is  engaged  in  needlework ;  but  she  lays  it 
down  frequently  in  her  lap,  and  fixes  her  eyes  upon  her  daughter. 
Her  tall,  spare  figure,  sitting  erect  in  the  old  Elizabethan  chair 
of  massive  mahogany,  is  a  good  study  of  pride,  antiquity,  and  self- 
complacency,  assured  dignity  and  satisfied  importance.  In  some 
respects  she  is  not  entirely  assured.  She  is  no  longer  the  ruler 
of  her  daughter,  though  she  still  maintains  the  natural  ascendency 
of  a  mother ;  but  she  has  a  fancy  that,  were  hers  the  only  author 
ity,  she  could  very  soon  cure  Olive  of  that  brooding  melancholy, 
of  which  she  begins  to  be  exceedingly  distrustful.  The  attempts 
which  she  makes  to  this  end  are  of  a  kind  rather  to  annoy  than 
to  relieve  the  mind  of  the  sufferer.  How  should  she — th,}  vain, 
weak,  ridiculous  old  creature  — 

"  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain; 
And  with  some  sweet,  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  sick  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  weighs  upon  the  heart  1" 

Alas !  like  toe  many  of  our  poor,  vain  family  of  man,  she  can 
better  make  sick  than  well ;  more  certainly  pain  than  cure  ;  rather 
poison  than  find  the  antidote :  and,  so  far  as  her  callous  conscience 
works,  that  old  woman  begins  to  doubt  whether  she  has  not  done 
this  vf,ry  thing !  It  is  surely  some  cruel  poison  which  has  made 
that  young  creature,  once  so  happy,  now. so  perfectly  "  a  creature 
of  the  wo  that  never  moans ;  dies,  but  complains  not !" 

"  Olive,  my  child,  is  there  to  be  no  end  of  this  ?"  said  the  moth 
er,  rising  and  approaching  the  daughter.  The  tones  were  re 
proachful,  not  conciliatory. 

"  What  is  it  you  wish,  mother  ?"  answered  the  young  wife,  hardly 
conscious  of  the  question,  and  looking  up  with  eyes  of  great  hu 
mility  ;  that  is,  if  the  utter  absence  of  all  animation  can  be  well 
signified  by  such  a  word. 


214  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

44  What  do  I  wish  ?  I  wish  you  to  shake  off  these  melancholy 
humors ;  to  be  yourself,  my  child ;  as  you  were  of  old,  when  your 
spirits  were  gay  as  any  bird's,  and  your  face  as  smiling  as  any 
sunshine." 

"Ah !  mother,  if  'twere  as  easy  to  do  as  to  wish — " 

"And  why  not?  'T would  be  quite  easy,  if  you'd  only  try — 
only  make  an  effort." 

"And  why  should  I  make  an  effort,  mother?" 

"  Why  ?  Why  have  you  not  everything  in  the  world  to  per 
suade  you  ?  There's  your  child  —  your  husband — " 

"  No  more,  mother,  I  implore  you  !  All  this  pains  me  —  does 
no  good." 

"  But  there  must  be  more,  Olive.  You  owe  it  to  the  cassique 
to  wear  a  more  smiling,  a  more  pleasant,  a  more  grateful  aspect. 
What  has  he  not  done  for  you  ?  what  is  he  not  doing  ?  Here  you 
have  every  prospect  of  a  beautiful,  a  splendid  home — " 

"  Would  to  God,  mother,  that  he  had  left  us  to  the  enjoyment 
of  our  poor  cottage  and  our  simplicity  !" 

"  Indeed  !     In  other  words,  to  poverty  and  obscurity — " 

"  Welcome  obscurity  !'' 

"  And  I  say,  '  No,'  my  child ;  and  I  shall  ever  congratulate  my- 
gelf  that  you  had  the  wisdom  to  choose  so  wisely  as  you  did." 

"  I  choose !" 

"  Surely,  you  chose  !" 

"  No,  mother,  spare  me  that  accusation.  It  was  your  choice, 
none  of  mine ;  and  my  hourly  thought  is  one  of  the  deepest  self- 
reproach  that  I  was  submissive  when  I  should  have  been  resolved  ; 
weak  —  oh,  most  pitiably  weak  —  where  I  should  have  been  strong ! 
But,  please  you,  say  no  more  of  this.  You  have  done  your  work, 
irrevocably  done  it,  and  I  am  —  what  I  am  !  Is  it  not  enough 
that  I  have  submitted  to  your  will  ?" 

"  My  wish,  my  child,  not  any  will  of  mine.  Your  own  will,  you 
know—" 

"  It  matters  nothing  now." 

"  But,  my  dear,  it  matters  everything.  Do  you  suppose  it  pleas 
ant  to  the  cassique,  who  is  doing  everything  for  us,  that  you  should 
meet  him  with  such  lack-lustre  eyes  always,  such  pallid  cheeks, 
such  a  spiritless  air,  such  a  wobegone  countenance  ?" 

"Can  I  help  it,  mother?" 


MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  215 

"  To  be  sure  you  can,  if  you  will  try.  It  only  needs  that  you 
pluck  up  resolution." 

"I  do  —  to  keep  from  drowning  !  I  should  sink  quite,  but  that 
I  do  try,  and  pluck  up  a  sort  of  resolution.  But  I  can  do  no  more. 
I  do  this  only  because  I  would,  if  it  were  possible  for  me,  make 
my  husband  happy.  I  do  not  reproach  him." 

"  You  reproach  me,  then  —  me  !" 

The  young  wife  was  silent.     The  mother  confronted  her. 

"  Yes,  Olive,  you  reproach  me  ;  and  that  is,  I  say  it,  the  height 
of  ingratitude  !  You  reproach  me  because  I  saved  you  from  the 
embraces  of  a  beggar — " 

"  Mother  you  promised  me  ! — " 

"  Yes,  I  did  promise  you  never  again  to  speak  of  that  poverty- 
stricken  reprobate ;  but  you  also  promised  me  that  you  wrould  try 
to  show  yourself  grateful  for  the  blessings — " 

"  Blessings  !     Ah,  mother,  do  I  not  seem  to  enjoy  them  ?" 

"It's  your  own  fault  if  you  do  not.  Here's  plenty;  here's 
wealth;  here's  servants,  any  number.  Is  it  money  you  would 
have  —  dress,  luxury,  splendor  ?  You  may  have  them  all." 

"  All  for  peace,  mother  !  I  would  give  all  for  peace  —  for 
sleep." 

"And  whose  fault  is  it  that  you  have  not  peace?  What's  to 
trouble  you  ?  You  have  nothing  to  apprehend.  You  have  only 
to  will,  and  have  —  command,  and  be  obeyed ;  and,  I  do  say  it, 
your  husband  is  one  of  the  best  of  men." 

"  He  is,  and  that  is  enough  to  rob  me  of  peace  !  —  that  he  de 
serves  so  much,  and  I  can  give  so  little  —  nothing,  in  fact,  of  what 
he  deserves  and  desires  most." 

"You  don't  try,  Olive!  You  prefer  to  sit,  and  mope,  and 
weep,  when  your  duty  is  to  stir  about,  and  be  cheerful  and  smiling. 
Trying  will  do  it  —  only  try  !" 

"  I  have  tried.     Oh,  do  not  ask  me  for  further  effort !" 

"Olive,  it's  all  perversity  !  And  when  I  consider  the  poverty 
out  of  which  he  brought  us  ;  the  plenty  which  we  now  enjoy  ;  the 
dignity  to  which  he  has  raised  you — " 

"  Oh,  mocks,  mocks,  mocks  ! — mocks  all,  and  frauds,  mother  — 
where  the  poor  heart  sits  naked  and  disconsolate  in  the  solitude, 
scorning  the  pomp  which  is  wasted  upon  the  wasting  frame. 
Mother,  no  more  of  this.  You  only  make  it  worse  !" 


216  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Make  it  worse  ?  As  if  I  did  not  kn  ow  what  was  best  for  my 
own  child !" 

The  daughter  shook  her  head  mournfully,  but  said  nothing. 
How  much  might  she  not  have  said  upon  the  theme  ?  The  mother 
was  not  so  forbearing. 

"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  I  ought  to  know,  who  Ve  reared  you  from 
the  cradle.  I  say  it's  mere  perversity  that  makes  you  go  on  so; 
makes  you  prefer  to  be  miserable  when  you  might  be  so  happy." 

"  Strange  perversity  indeed,  mother,  preferring  misery  to  hap 
piness  !  Have  you  found  it  so  easy  to  procure  happiness  ?" 

"That's  nothing  to  the  purpose.  Here  are  you,  I  say,  with 
everything  to  make  you  happy  —  plenty,  every  way  ;  wealth  and 
servants ;  and  a  good  husband,  a  nobleman  of  rank ;  one  of  the 
first  men  in  this  country ;  who  is  as  kind  to  you  as  man  can  be  to 
woman,  and  one  of  the  most  loving,  if  you  'd  only  suffer  him ;  and 
with  one  dear,  beautiful  child :  and  yet  you  sit  here,  pining  and 
trying  to  be  wretched,  when  you  should  have  a  smile  for  every 
thing,  and  be  singing  your  happiness  from  morning  to  night  and 
from  night  to  morning.  And  what's  the  pretence  for  all  this? 
Why,  that  once,  when  you  were  a  foolish,  inexperienced  child, 
you  made  a  ridiculous  engagement — " 

"  Which  you  then  approved,  mother." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  know,  then,  what  I  knew  afterward  —  that  you 
might  have  a  far  better  man." 

"  No,  mother :  a  richer,  perhaps,  but  never  a  better !" 

u  And  I  say  that  makes  a  mighty  difference.  It's  one  thing  to 
have  a  husband  that  can  keep  you  in  state  and  comfort,  but  quite 
another  to  be  married  to  poverty,  and  want,  and  shame — " 

"  Not  shame,  mother  !" 

"  I  say  shame,  Olive  Berkeley  —  shame  :  for  what  is  Poverty, 
always,  but  a  thing  that  must  hold  down  its  head,  and  walk  hum 
bly  through  dark  passages,  and  feel  all  the  time  that  the  world  is 
running  over  its  neck?  That's  shame;  and  that  would  have 
been  your  portion  if  you  had  married  Harry  Berkeley.  And  if, 
as  you  say,  it  is  /  that  have  done  it  —  well,  I  say  it 's  something 
of  which  I  might  well  be  proud,  and  for  which  you  ought  to  be 
thankful.  And  what 's  the  difference  between  the  men,  if  you 
come  to  that?  Isn't  the  cassique  as  fine  a  looking  man  as  his 
younger  brother?" 


MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  217 

Olive  answered  nothing  to  this. 

"Isn't  he  almost  as  young;  quite  as  handsome;  quite  as  wise 
and  learned  ;  as  brave  and  graceful ;  is  n't  he  as  noble  and  gener 
ous ;  and  doesn't  he,  in  fact,  look  almost  as  much  like  him  as  if 
they  had  been  twinned  together?" 

"  Alas  !  mother,  he  looks  too  like  him.  He  reminds  me  of  him 
for  ever !" 

«  Well !— " 

«  Well  —  but  I  know  that  he  is  not  Harry  !" 

And  a  gush  of  tears  followed ;  and  the  young  wife,  hearing  her 
husband's  footstep  in  the  passage,  rose  hastily  and  left  the  room  — 
but  not  before  the  cassique,  entering,  discovered  that  she  was  in 
tears.  She  did  not  look  up  —  hardly  noted  his  appearance  ;  but 
he,  quickened  to  keenest  scrutiny  by  his  own  anxieties  of  heart, 
detected  all  her  emotions  in  the  one  passing  glance  which  he 
caught  of  her  convulsed  features  as  she  went.  In  the  face  and 
manner  of  the  mother  he  distinguished  the  proofs  of  recent  con 
troversy  ;  of  vulgar  authority ;  of  a  harsh,  ungenial  censure ;  of 
a  temper  too  little  ruled  by  thought  or  sensibility  to  permit  her 
to  become  a  consoler  or  counsellor  for  a  bruised  and  suffering 
spirit. 

"  Madam,"  said  he  sternly,  "  I  could  wish  that  you  would  say 
nothing  to  Olive  on  the  subject  of  her  sorrows,  whatever  they  may 
be.  I  know  not  what  they  are.  I  can  not  decipher  this  mystery ; 
nor,  it  appears,  according  to  your  admission,  is  it  in  your  power 
to  do  so.  You  allege  to  me  that  you  know  nothing  of  her  present 
cause  of  grief." 

"  To  be  sure  not,  my  son  ;  but — " 

"  To  attempt  to  cure  the  disease  of  which  we  know  nothing, 
must  be  to  hurt,  not  to  help ;  and  we  may  kill  the  patient  in  the 
fond  attempt  to  save.  You  will  permit  me  once  more  to  insist 
that  you  make  no  such  attempt.  Do  not  pry  into  her  mystery. 
You  will  only  aggravate  her  suffering,  as,  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you, 
is  invariably  the  case,  after  your  conversations  with  her.  As  her 
mother,  you  are  naturally  solicitous ;  but  solicitude  here  requires 
forbearance.  We  must  be  content  to  wait  upon  her  moods,  tc 
watch  their  changes ;  and  leave  it  to  herself  to  suggest  the  means 
by  which  we  may  bring  succor  to  her  mind  or  body.  Once  more, 
madam,  I  repeat  the  wish,  the  injunction,  that  you  will  not  again 

10 


218  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

trouble  her  on  the  subject  of  her  afflictions.  Leave  them  to  time 
—  leave  them  to  me,  madam,  if  you  please." 

And,  saying  these  words,  not  waiting  for  any  answer,  he  with 
drew  from  the  apartment ;  and,  hurriedly  moving  now,  left  the 
house,  to  rejoin  the  workmen  without. 

The  mother  shot  an  angry  glance  after  the  son-in-law.  Had 
she  but  dared,  she  would  have  given  him  a  precious  tongue-volley 
as  he  went.  But  the  virago  was  always  subdued  in  the  presence 
of  this  stern  man,  who  never  addressed  her  one  gratuitous  word ; 
whose  words  were  always  direct,  even  as  fiery  arrows  sent  head 
long  to  the  mark;  whom  she  felt  'twould  be  dangerous  to  trifle 
with.  She  well  knew  that  the  slightest  disposition  to  pass  between 
him  and  his  wife,  or  his  will,  would  insure  her  immediate  dismissal 
from  his  house. 

"Leave  it  to  you,  indeed!"  she  muttered;  "as  if  you  could 
better  know  than  me  what  is  my  child's  trouble,  and  how  to  cure 
it !  Well  I  never  let  him  know  of  that  engagement !  He  shall 
never  know  !  No,  no  ;  that  would  be  terrible  !  He  'd  never  for 
give  me  that !  But  I  must  make  Olive  sensible  to  reason.  She's 
just  throwing  away  happiness  and  fortune.  I  know  this  man  so 
well,  that,  sooner  than  stand  this  sort  of  life  another  year,  he  'd 
break  loose  from  everything.  And  if,  in  his  fury,  he  was  to  de 
mand  the  truth  from  Olive,  she'd  be  just  as  like  as  not  to  tell  him 
every  syllable.  She  hasn't  the  sense  to  keep  her  own  secrets  or 
mine.  And  if  she  was  to  do  that,  what  would  become  of  her  — 
nnd  me  ?  He  'd  swear  that  we  deceived  him  !  No,  no  !  —  I  must 
bring  Olive  to  her  proper  senses,  before  it's  too  late.  He's 
becoming  sterner  and  more  keen  every  day.  He  must  not  be 
driven  too  far.  She  must  be  driven  rather." 

We  shall  see  something  yet  of  this  driving  process  on  the  part 
of  our  loving  mother  ! 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HOUSE.  210 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE    SHADOW    ON    THE    HOUSE. 

"  Doct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 
Macb.  Cure  her  of  that  !"  SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  cassique  had  gone  back  to  the  work  without.  It  was  with 
spasmodic  energy  that  he  sought  relief  in  employment.  The  ref 
uge  of  his  soul  lay  only  in  throwing  off  all  his  nervous  energies, 
by  the  exercise  of  all  his  physical  faculties,  in  the  most  desultory 
occupations.  But  the  mind  —  how  did  that  employ  itself  the 
while  ? 

It  is  surely  not  difficult  to  conceive  his  suffering.  A  proud 
man,  noble,  disinterested,  generous,  impulsive,  has  set  his  heart 
upon  an  object ;  fancies  that  he  has  won  it ;  and,  in  his  moment 
of  greatest  exultation,  finds  the  fancy  a  delusion  ! 

He  has  somehow  been  the  victim  of  a  deception.  Was  it  his 
own,  or  whose  ?  Has  he  deceived  himself  by  his  own  vanities 
.and  desires,  or  has  he  been  the  subject  of  management  ?  An  Eng 
lishman  is  very  apt  to  suspect  the  latter.  All  the  Old- World 
convention  teaches  intrigue  and  management  in  the  affairs  of  the 
heart. 

But  whose  has  been  the  management  ?  Not  the  wife's,  surely. 
Of  that  he  is^atisfied.  He  knows  not  her  secret  —  is  too  noble 
to  pry  into  it:  enough  that  his  wife  has  a  secret,  which  troubles 
her,  and  which  she  does  not  communicate  to  him.  It  is  enough 
for  him  to  know  that.  He  cares  to  know  nothing  more.  His 
knowledge  is  already  most  mournfully  sufficient. 

That  proves  to  him  estrangement — want  of  sympathy.  "We 
are  not  one,"  he  mournfully  utters  to  himself.  "  But  is  she  guilty  ? 


220  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Has  she  deliberately  lent  herself  to  a  fraud  upon  my  affections  ? 
No  !  It  is  only  to  look  at  her.  She,  too,  has  been  the  victim. 
If,  in  evil  hour,  she  has  lied  to  me,  she  is  paying  for  it  now  the 
dreadful  penalty.  The  pang  has  struck  home  to  the  heart.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  she  is  quite  as  wretched  as  she  has  made  me 

"  How  is  it  that  I  saw  nothing,  suspected  nothing?. . .  Now,  that 
I  look  back  upon  our  courtship,  was  there  anything  to  encourage 
me  ?  She  was  ever  shy  and  shrinking ;  ever  denying  me  oppor 
tunity.  And.  fool  that  I  was,  I  construed  even  her  reluctance 
into  modest  favor !  Should  I  not  have  known  better  ?  Was  it 
favor  ?  Does  it  now  seem  like  favor  ?  Was  it  not  rather  cold 
ness,  indifference,  aversion  ?  Oh,  how  blind  I  have  been  in  all 
this  affair ! . . . . 

"Was  she  not  heart-whole  then?  Her  mother  assured  me  — 
never  were  assurances  more  solemn.  But  —  she  is  her  mother; 
and  —  I  know  her  now,  if  I  do  not  yet  know  Olive  ! . . .  And  she 
was  reared  in  that  accursed  set  of  the  Clives  and  Saxbys  —  all 
hollow,  corrupt,  selfish,  and  artificial ;  and  all  poor  and  preten 
tious  !  Ah,  I  have  been  a  rash  and  headlong  fool ! . . . . 

"  But  did  I  not,  even  then,  separate  Olive  from  them  ?  Did  I 
not  then  see,  and  assure  myself —  I  thought  I  did  —  that  she  had 
suffered  no  contaminations  —  had  escaped  their  corruptions  ?  She 
was  pure,  simple,  unaffected  ;  had  no  ambition  to  shine  ;  preferred 
solitude  to  gay  society ;  went  not  with  the  dancing  fools  and  mon 
keys  ;  seemed  always  most  frank,  most  ingenuous,  and  delicately 
honorable 

"  And  —  I  have  not  been  deceived  in  her.  She  is  such  now. 
I  doubt  her  in  nothing  —  save  that  she  has  a  secret,  which  she 
keeps  from  me  —  in  the  core  of  which  lies  all  her  care  !  Could  I 
ask  —  demand  —  this  secret?  Ay  —  she  would  declare  it.  I 
doubt  not  but  she  would  declare  it,  as  truly,  fully,  fairly,  devoutly, 
as  if  in  the  presence  of  her  God  !  She  might  dread  to  do  so !  — 
But  I  must  not  seek  to  know.  It  were  base  to  se^k,  despotic  to 
demand  it. 

"  Nay,  dare  I  seek  ?  How  could  I  bear  to  learn  that  secret  ? 
Whither  would  it  lead  ?  There  lies  the  danger !  Olive  is  not 
only  my  wife,  but  the  mother  of  my  child  —  my  son  —  he  who 
must  bear  the  name  of  my  fathers  !  . . . . 

"  On  every  side  the  cloud  hangs  heavily.     I  must  not  seek  to 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HOUSE.  221 

pierce  it ;  but  there  's  a  terrible  presentiment  that  racks  my  soul. 
I  shall  know  the  truth  ere  long ;  and  then  —  God  give  me  the 
needful  strength  to  endure  it !  God  preserve  my  manhood  !" 

And,  tearing  himself  away  from  thought,  as  from  his  direst 
enemy,  he  darted  with  desperate  zeal  to  toil.  He  himself  grasped 
axe  and  hammer ;  seized  upon  the  implements,  in  the  very  hands 
of  the  workmen,  and  exhibited  to  their  confounded  senses  the  spec 
tacle  of  a  gentleman  who  could  plan  and  execute  at  once  —  could 
exhibit  such  skill  and  strength  as  we  are  wont  to  consider  unsuit 
able  and  anomalous  when  united  in  the  same  person,  and  he  a 
gentleman. 

But  we  must  turn  from  him  again  to  Olive.  That  day,  she 
declined  appearing  at  dinner.  The  cassique  took  his  seat  silently, 
F«te  little,  listened  patiently  to  the  harangues  of  his  mother-in-law, 
and,  without  answering,  rose  and  disappeared.  The  mother  fol 
lowed  soon  from  table,  but  took  her  way  to  the  daughter's  cham 
ber.  Another  lecture,  the  avowed  purpose  of  which  was  love. 

"  You  must  take  exercise,  Olive.  You  must  go  out  and  walk 
with  nurse  and  baby.  Come,  get  ready.  I  will  go  along  with 
you." 

Olive  thanked  her,  but  declined. 

"  Olive,  my  child,  you  are  killing  yourself." 

To  this  the  daughter  made  no  answer,  save  with  a  smile  —  a 
smile  of  such  a  sort  as  seemed  to  say,  clearer  than  any  words  — 

"  And  that  were  scarce  a  sorrow,  mother !" 

It  was  the  luckless  nature  of  this  woman,  which  never  suffered 
her  to  rest  herself,  or  permit  rest  to  her  victim.  Under  the  pre 
text  of  soothing,  she  pursued  the  daughter.  Soothing,  indeed  ! 
When  did  a  cold  heart  cheer  a  sorrowing  one  ?  She  only  wor 
ried  her ;  and  when  the  grieving  woman  pressed  her  temples  with 
her  hands,  with  a  sudden  expression  of  physical  pain,  then  the 
good  mother  knew  that  there  was  headache  to  soothe,  and  other 
vexing  ministries  to  be  performed,  when  all  that  the  sufferer  prayed 
for  was  to  be  at  peace  —  to  be  let  alone.  It  was  a  positive  gain 
to  the  excellent  mother,  when,  at  supper-table,  she  could  report 
to  the  cassique  that  his  wife's  sufferings  were  now  certainly 
physical. 

The  husband  rose  immediately,  went  to  the  chamber,  looked  in 
only,  and  said,  in  the  gentlest  and  most  solicitous  accents : — 


222  THE   CAS8IQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  You  are  unwell,  Olive  —  can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you.     I  simply  need  repose." 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Olive." 

He  returned  to  the  table,  and  said  quietly :  "  Olive  would 
sleep.  You  will  oblige  me  not  to  seek  her  again  to-night." 

And  this  was  all.  If  the  mother  made  any  answer,  the  cassique 
did  not  hear  it.  In  a  few  minutes  after,  he  retired  to  the  library, 
where  he  sat  reading  half  the  night  —  reading,  or  lost  in  those 
meditations  which  left  Thought  stranded  on  a  desert  shore  ! 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  change  in  Olive,  but  hardly  for 
the  better.  There  was  an  increase  of  nervous  energy,  but  it 
seemed  to  lack  direction.  The  mind,  though  elevated  a  little, 
seemed  to  wander  in  object.  The  eyes  were  bright,  but  it  was 
with  a  flickering  sort  of  light,  that  seemed  to  argue  confused  and 
excited  fancies.  She  was  restless  throughout  the  day,  and  this 
restlessness  was  construed  by  the  mother  into  improvement.  The 
judgment  of  the  cassique  was  more  true.  He  regarded  her  with 
an  increased  earnestness,  but  said  little,  and  not  a  syllable  on  the 
subject  which  distressed  him.  In  the  afternoon,  Olive  walked 
out  with  nurse  and  baby.  The  mother  and  younger  sister  followed 
in  search  of  them.  They  were  found  in  a  great  live-oak  wood, 
which  stretched  away  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  in  the  direction 
of  the  river.  It  was  a  noble  grove,  shady,  cathedral-like,  the  an 
cestral  trees  of  which  might  have  been  growing  five  hundred  years 
—  a  glorious  avenue  for  contemplation. 

Olive  wandered  in  this  wood  with  vacant  look  and  manner. 
She  simply  answered  when  addressed ;  then  fitfully,  and  with  the 
air  of  one  whom  her  own  voice  startled.  Even  the  mother  began 
to  think  there  was  something  wrong ;  and  this  made  her  some 
what  more  cautious  than  usual  in  her  communications. 

The  next  morning  the  same  symptoms,  with  decided  increase. 
There  was  as  much  wildness  of  air  and  manner,  with  more  of  a 
spasmodic  energy.  Olive  was  still  singularly  restless  —  passing 
from  chamber  to  chamber  —  engaging  momently  in  some  new  oc 
cupation,  and  abandoning  each  in  turn  almost  as  soon  as  taken 
up.  It  was  noted  by  the  cassique  that  there  was  at  times  a  fever 
ish  quiver  of  her  lips  ;  a  sudden  start,  upon  occasions  ;  an  anxious 
looking  round  her,  as  if  in  obedience  to  some  call,  or  in  expecta 
tion  of  some  approach.  But,  when  spoken  to.  her  replies  were 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HOUSE.  223 

simple,  artless,  unaffected,  to  the  point,  and,  if  possible,  still  more 
subdued  in  tone  than  usual.  The  mother  observed  that  she  not 
unfrequently  essayed  to  speak  with  her  when  they  were  alone 
together  ;  would  begin  a  sentence  abruptly,  as  if  under  some  un 
governable  impulse,  yet  as  suddenly  arrest  herself  in  the  utter 
ance  ;  her  eyes  cast  down,  on  the  instant,  with  a  sort  of  dogged 
resolution,  upon  the  work  in  her  hands.  Several  attempts  which 
the  cassique  made  to  speak  with  her  —  always  in  the  gentlest 
tones  —  were  met  by  an  absolute  recoil  of  manner,  amounting  to 
repulsion,  on  the  part  of  the  sufferer.  She  seemed  especially  to 
shrink  from  his  approach.  He  consulted  with  the  mother. 

"  She  is  either  about  to  be  very  ill,  or  she  has  some  oppressive 
weight  upon  her  mind." 

u  Oh  !  there  can  be  no  weight  upon  her  mind ;  and  I  hardly 
tlrink  that  she  is  ill,  Sir  Edward.  In  fact,  for  the  last  two  days. 
I  think  she  has  been  gaining  in  life  and  strength." 

"  Losing  in  both,  /  think,  and  during  this  very  space." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir !  She  has  twice  the  energy  and  animation  now 
that  she  had  three  days  ago." 

"  Twice  the  restlessness,  madam.  There  is  a  strange,  hurried 
wildness  in  her  eyes,  which  alarms  me ;  and,  if  you  perceive,  she 
shrinks  from  me  with  something  very  like  aversion." 

"  Dear  me,  Sir  Edward,  this  is  a  most  absurd  notion  !  —  pardon 
me  for  saying  so.  Olive  is  a  creature  of  great  sensibility  —  too 
much  sensibility  —  and  she's  liable  to  sudden  changes  of  mood." 

"  I  have  frequently  heard  you  say,  madam,  that  she  was  always 
very  equable,  cheerful,  animated,  full  of  natural  gayety — " 

"  And  so  she  always  was — " 

"  Till  I  married  her,  madam !" 

"  Oh !  your  marriage,  I  'm  sure,  had  nothing  to  do  with  any 
change,  Sir  Edward." 

"  Yet  it  seems  strange  that  it  should  take  place  at  that  very 
time." 

"  No,  indeed,  Sir  Edward,  you  are  quite  mistaken  there.  It 
was  a  full  six  or  eight  months  before  that,  when  she  began  to  be 
less  cheerful,  and  to  look  saddish  and  melancholy." 

"  Yet  you  say  there 's  nothing  on  her  mind  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  know  of  nothing  !  I  don't  see  what  there  should 
be.  Olive  has  always  been  tenderly  nurtured,  and  the  good  for- 


224  THE   CASS1QUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

tune  which  has  attended  her,  Sir  Edward  —  the  fact  that  she  is 
the  honored  wife  of  a  person  of  your  wealth  and  nobleness — " 

"  Enough,  madam,  on  that  score.  The  only  question  now  is, 
as  to  her  ailment.  What  is  her  cause  of  suffering  ?  Is  it  of  the 
mind  or  body  ?  Not  that  I  care  to  know,  Mrs.  Masterton,  except 
with  the  single  desire  to  help  and  cure.  I  have  listened  to  you 
with  deference,  but  I  can  not  resist  the  belief  which  assures  me 
that  she  labors  under  some  painful  burden  of  the  mind  or  heart — " 

"  The  heart,  indeed  !  No,  no  !  all's  right  in  that  quarter.  Olive 
is  a  loving,  true,  devoted  wife." 

"  I  confess,  madam,  I  have  not  found  her  a  loving  one.  I  have 
no  reason  to  doubt  that  she  is  a  true  one.  But  I  am  forced  pain 
fully  to  feel  that  I  have  never  had  from  her  any  such  proofs  of 
sympathy  as  could  persuade  me  of  her  love  ;  and  latterly,  the 
pain  of  this  conviction  has  been  greatly  increased  by  what  s*em 
to  me  evident  signs  of  aversion." 

"  What  an  idea  !" 

"  It  is  one,  madam,  which  forces  itself  upon  me,  at  all  hours, 
and  with  no  encouragement  from  me.  I  do  not  welcome  it, 
madam !" 

This  was  bitterly  spoken. 

"  Oh  !  dismiss  it,  sir ;  it  does  Olive  great  injustice.  She  loves 
you,  sir ;  yes — " 

"  I  wish  I  could  believe  it ;  but  do  you  know,  madam,  that  I 
can  not  help  the  further  thought  that  she  exhibits  a  similar  aver 
sion  to  our  child  —  her  child  and  mine ;  that  the  little  innocent 
wins  nothing  of  a  mother's  love ;  that  she  puts  him  from  her,  if 
not  with  aversion,  at  least  with  indifference ;  never  dandles  him 
in  her  arms,  never  sings  the  mother's  lullaby  in  his  ears,  never 
puts  his  little  mouth  to  hers  with  a  mother's  heartfelt  fondness." 

"  Lord  bless  me,  Sir  Edward,  how  blind  you  seem  to  have  been  ! 
Why,  I  have  seen  her  do  it  a  thousand  times  —  kiss  him,  and  hug 
him,  and  dandle  him,  and  sing  to  him,  by  the  hour." 

"  You  have  been  more  fortunate  than  myself,  madam.  She  has 
never  done  these  things  in  my  presence ;  and  I  fancy  you  must 
deceive  yourself,  at  all  events,  in  the  frequency  of  these  endear 
ments.  Seeing  as  I  have  done,  madam  —  and  I  have  been  a  keen 
because  a  grieving  watcher  —  I  infer  the  worst  from  this  unnatu 
ral  condition  of  mind  and  heart.  I  confess  to  you  it  moves  me 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  HOUSE.  225 

sometimes  to  the  terrible  thought  that  it  is  because  Olive  Berke 
ley  loathes  the  father,  she  denies  her  love  to  the  child  —  she 
loathes  him  as  loathing  me  ;  or,  if  not  this — " 

"  Oh,  Sir  Edward,  I  am  astonished  at  you !  It  is  really  too 
monstrous  !  How  can  you,  sir — " 

"  Hear  me,  madam.  There  is  but  one  other  alternative ;  and 
that  is — " 

"  What,  sir,  what  ?"  finding  that  he  hesitated. 

"Another  suspicion, scarcely  less  terrible"  —  and  here  his  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper  —  "  that  my  wife  is  on  the  verge  of  insanity  !" 

The  mother  began  to  cry  aloud,  when  he  seized  her  wrist  with 
an  iron  gripe  : — 

"  Not  a  word,  madam,  for  your  life  !  Not  a  whisper  of  this  to 
mortal !  It  is  in  your  ears  only  that  I  breathe  it.  To  suffer  her 
to  hear  either  of  these  terrible  conjectures  of  mine,  would  be  fatal 
—  would  be  her  death,  madam  —  her  death!" 

"  0  my  God  !  Oh,  Sir  Edward,  these  are  most  horrible  suspi 
cions  !" 

"  Horrible,  madam  !     Ay,  hell  is  at  the  core  of  either  —  hel! 
hell !     Enough,  madam :  be  silent !    No  officiousness  now.     I  com 
mand  that  you  forbear  my  wife.     I  shall  send  to  town  for  a  phy 
sician.     Doctor  Lining  is  said  to  be  a  man  of  skill,  though  God 
knows  I  look  for  little  succor  at  any  hands !" 

10* 


226  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAli. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

ESPIONAGE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

"Bring  me  the  joy  in  secret  —  let  me  drink 
The  little  lonely  rapture  that  earth  yields  me, 
Where  none  can  see  !     Oh !  thousand  times  more  precious 
As  secret  !  none  can  envy  me  the  store, 
The  little  store  of  love,  which  makes  the  substance 
Of  any  life  for  broken  hearts  like  mine  !" 

THE  despatch  was  prepared  and  sent  off  for  Doctor  Lining ;  aLd 
the  brave  cassique,  suffering  but  strong,  hurried  out  again  to  his 
workmen  —  and  grasped  their  tools,  and  smote,  and  hewed,  and 
sawed,  and  planed,  to  the  surprise  of  all  —  and  as  all,  no  doubt, 
thought,  in  a  fond  pursuit  of  happiness  !  Ah,  that  pursuit  of  hap 
piness  !  Certainly,  if  that  had  been  his  object,  he  ha^  pursued  it 
with  shut  eyes.  And  what  sort  of  happiness,  for  her=.elf  or  daugh 
ter,  has  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Masterton  aimed  at?  And  poor 
Olive,  she  had  pursued  nothing :  she  had  only  been  pursued,  and 
Burely  not  by  Happiness  ! 

With  evening,  Doctor  Lining  came.  The  cassique's  carriage 
had  met  him  at  the  landing,  and  brought  him  on,  post-haste.  He 
was  an  excellent  gentleman,  knowing  his  profession  thoroughly  as 
it  was  at  that  day  known.  He  was  naturally  intelligent,  and  well 
read  —  a  fair  sample  of  the  average  home-education  of  professional 
people.  Of  his  skill,  nothing  need  be  said  here.  Learning  is  one 
tiling,  skill  another ;  and  medicine,  like  religion,  poetry,  and  most 
of  the  liberal  arts  and  professions,  demands  a  special  gift  from 
Heaven. 

Olive  had  retired  when  the  doctor  came.  The  mother  presided 
at  the  supper-table.  But  nothing  was  said  of  Olive's  case.  The 
cassique  very  prudently  resolved  that  Lining  was  not  to  appear  as 
a  physician  ;  only  as  a  friend,  about  to  revisit  the  mother-country, 


ESPIONAGE   OP   THE   BROKEN    HEART.  227 

and  seeking  the  cassique  simply  to  receive  his  commissions.  Such 
was  the  pious  fraud  as  agreed  upon  between  them. 

That  night,  when  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Masterton  had  retired, 
the  cassique  and  the  doctor  conferred  together  in  the  library. 
Colonel  Berkeley  —  or,  as  the  courtesy  of  the  country  styled  him, 
because  of  his  cassiqueship,  Sir  Edward  —  was  one  of  those  down 
right,  direct,  resolute  sort  of  men,  who  allowed  himself  no  circuit 
ous  processes  in  his  objects.  Heedless  of  the  pain,  he  laid  his 
own  and  the  case  of  Olive  fully  before  the  physician. 

"  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  Doctor  Lining,  and  must  not  deceive 
you,  in  respect  to  the  condition  of  my  wife.  I  regard  her  as  in 
danger  of  becoming  a  lunatic." 

"  Good  God !  I  hope  not.  What  are  your  reasons  for  this 
fear?" 

Berkeley  made  a  full  report  of  all  the  suspicious  circumstances. 

"  She  does  not  nurse  her  child  ?" 

"  No,  sir :  her  health  affected  her  milk  ;  and,  by  the  advice  of 
Arbuthnot,  we  employed  a  healthy  wet-nurse,  and  she  has  been 
relieved  of  this  duty.  No  evil  consequences  have  happened  to  the 
child." 

"  The  necessity,  however,  was  an  unfortunate  one.  The  ma 
ternal  duty  might  have  been  a  means,  and  —  but  go  on,  sir:  I 
would  first  hear  your  particulars.  We  can  think  over  them  after 
ward." 

u  It  is  perhaps  necessary,  doctor,  that  I  should  go  into  details 
that  do  not  seem  immediately  to  bear  upon  the  case.  But,  I  am 
uneasy  in  respect  to  this  very  point,  because  doubtful  of  the  cause 
of  my  wife's  sufferings ;  and  one  way  to  mislead  a  physician  is  to 
suppress  facts  which  may  be  important." 

The  doctor  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  It  becomes  necessary,  then,  that  I  should  reveal  a  small  family 
history,  beginning  with  my  first  acquaintance  and  marriage  with 
Miss  Masterton." 

"  If  you  think  it  necessary,"  said  Lining. 

"  Surely  :  on  no  other  account.  I  saw  Miss  Masterton,  then  a 
young  lady,  after  my  return  from  the  continent.  Our  families  had 
been  intimate,  and  I  had  seen  her  in  childhood,  but  not  to  remark 
her  particularly.  When  I  came  back  from  the  continent,  she  was 
a  blooming  girl  of  eighteen.  I  was  charmed  with  her  manners 


228  THE   CAJ3SIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

her  person,  her  intelligence.  I  sought  her,  saw  her  frequently, 
and  my  visits  and  attentions  were  encouraged  by  her  mother. 
Olive  herself  was  reserved  toward  me.  At  first,  she  received  me 
with  frank  and  cordial  welcome ;  with  pleasure,  as  I  fancied  ;  but, 
as  my  attentions  increased,  she  became  shy.  I  persevered,  how 
ever  ;  and,  to  make  a  long  story  as  short  as  possible,  my  proposals 
were  made,  through  her  mother,  and,  after  some  delay,  were  ac 
cepted.  Some  further  delays,  urged  by  herself,  as  I  have  reason 
to  believe,  prevented  our  immediate  marriage.  That  finally  took 
place ;  and,  after  the  birth  of  our  son,  we  removed  to  Carolina." 
"  There  is  nothing  in  all  this,  Colonel  Berkeley." 
"  No,  sir :  but  I  soon  discovered  that  my  wife,  though  submis 
sive,  was  not  genial ;  though  gentle,  not  fond  ;  not,  seemingly,  sus 
ceptible  of  fondness  ;  reluctant  in  my  presence  ;  silent ;  finally  sad 
and,  with  every  day,  growing  more  and  more  taciturn,  more  fond 
of  solitude,  more  reluctant  to  respond  to  me  in  any  way.  I  was 
not  harsh,  not  imperative ;  never  said  a  hasty  word  to  her ;  tried 
to  soothe  and  conciliate;  strove  to  please.  I  was  always  met  with 
coldness  —  a  measured  coldness  —  which  was  sadness  also  —  and 
which  has  recently  become,  as  it  seems  to  me,  aversion." 
"  That  is  a  strong  word  !  May  you  not  deceive  yourself?" 
"  No,  sir !  I  have  weighed  all  the  facts  with  the  utmost  cau 
tion  and  deliberation.  That  she  is  wretched,  I  see ;  that  she 
makes  me  wretched,  I  know  !  That  she  grows  more  wretched, 
more  estranged  daily,  more  insensible -to  my  cares,  more  listless, 
heedless,  indifferent  in  everything,  is  apparent  to  every  eye. 
When  I  first  knew  her,  she  was  plump  and  round ;  she  is  now 
reduced  to  a  skeleton.  She  was  young,  bright,  blooming,  when  I 
first  came  from  the  continent ;  she  has  lost  bloom,  and  flesh,  and 
brightness,  almost  from  the  moment  of  our  marriage.  Once  she 
was  cheerful ;  now  she  wears  the  look  of  one  to  whom  life  can 
offer  nothing ;  who  has  no  hope.  Appetite,  spirits,  animation,  all 
are  gone.  Latterly,  from  being  utterly  passive  —  sad,  to  such  in 
difference,  that  I  verily  believe  had  I  smitten  her,  she  would 
never  have  lifted  hand  to  protect  her  face  —  nay,  would  have 
smiled  gently  at  the  infliction  —  now,  she  has  become  restless, 
wandering,  capricious ;  easily  startled,  nervous ;  with  a  restless 
light  in  her  eyes,  which  is  painful  to  behold  —  to  me  the  most 
startling  of  the  signs  that  trouble  me." 


ESPIONAGE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART.  -       229 

And  so  he  proceeded,  till  he  had  concluded  tho  details  which 
lie  conceived  important;  not  omitting  that  statement  —  in  which 
lie  differed  with  Mrs.  Masterton  —  that  Olive  appeared  entirely 
regardless  of  her  child,  and  gave  it  no  proofs  of  her  affection. 

"That,  certainly,  is  a  most  singular  circumstance.  But  I 
will  not  say  anything  of  the  case,  colonel,  till  I  have  seen  the  pa 
tient.  It  is  understood  that  I  am  not  to  be  known  as  her  physi 
cian.  She  must  simply  be  watched  and  studied.  I  will  devote 
myself  to  that  to-morrow." 

"  It  may  require  several  days,  doctor." 

"  Fortunately,  the  town  is  just  now  so  healthy,  that  I  can  spare 
the  necessary  time 

The  conversation  flagged,  even  over  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  and 
the  parties  then  retired  for  the  night. 

With  morning,  began  the  watch  and  study.  Olive  little  knew 
the  surveillance  to  which  she  was  to  be  subjected.  She  had  arisen 
as  usual.  Her  face,  air,  manner,  tones,  all  exhibited  the  aspects 
which  we  have  already  reported  as  characteristic  of  the  three  pre 
ceding  days.  There  was  the  same  flushed  impulse,  the  same  rest 
lessness,  caprice,  incertitude ;  the  same  wild,  spiritual  brightness 
of  eye  ;  and  certainly  a  great  increase  of  general  excitement.  Bui 
the  physician,  introduced  as  Mr.  Lining,  a  friend  of  her  husban^ 
about  to  revisit  Europe,  did  not  occasion  any  emotion  after  the 
first  introduction.  She  scarcely  seemed  to  heed  him.  And  this 
afforded  the  doctor  a  good  opportunity  for  studying  her.  He  did 
so  with  a  silent  inquisitiveness  which  she  had  no  reason  to  suspect. 
The  cassique  contrived  frequent  occasions  for  him. 

You  must  see  our  boy,  Lining !     My  Lord  John  will  expect 
you  to  make  a  full  report.     Bring  in  '  Young  Harry.' " 

At  the  words,  the  wife  started,  and  looked  about  her  wildly. 

"  Young  Harry,  with  his  cuisses  on !"  continued  the  cassique,  in 
the  proud  tones  of  the  father.  "  He  is  a  brave-looking  fellow,  is 
he  not  ?  See  what  a  brow  he  has !  From  the  first,  he  looked 
like  a  dear  brother  whom  I  lost — a  wild,  manly,  noble  fellow  — 
and  he  bears  his  name ;  and  every  day  seems  to  strengthen  the 
likeness.  I  shall  be  satisfied  if  he  grow  like  Harry  Berkeley." 

A  deep  sigh  closed  the  speech,  but  it  issued  from  the  lips  of 
Olive  Berkeley.  Every  eye  was  turned  toward  her.  She  lay 
back  in  her  chair.  Her  own  eyes  were  shut.  She  had  fainted. 


230  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

The  cassique  darted  to  her,  and  raised  her  in  his  arms  tenderly. 
The  mother  was  officious,  till  pushed  away  by  the  doctor.  He 
sprinkled  some  water  upon  the  face  of  the  unconscious  woman  — 
called  for  hartshorn,  which  was  luckily  at  hand,  and  soon  wit 
nessed  her  revival. 

"  Take  her  now  to  her  chamber." 

When  mother  and  daughter  were  withdrawn,  and  the  cassique 
and  physician  remained  alone,  the  latter  said  musingly  — 

"Of  what  were  we  speaking,  colonel?" 

"I  know  not!  I  have  forgotten  everything.  Her  suffering, 
doctor,  her  most  inscrutable  suffering,  takes  from  me  all  power  of 
thought  and  observation." 

"  Nay,  not  so  bad  as  that.  This  fainting-fit  is  probably  not  a 
bad  symptom.  It  would  be  terrible  were  she  without  emotion ; 
and  that  was  what  I  feared  from  your  statement.  But  what  were 
we  talking  about  ?" 

The  cassique  did  not  answer.     Lining  resumed : — 

"The  child  —  ah!  yes;  and  the  name.  You  have  a  brother 
named  Harry,  Sir  Edward  ?" 

"Had,  doctor." 

"Ah!" 

"A  noble  fellow  —  bold,  brave,  daring,  full  of  soul  and  spirit; 
but  the  waves  are  over  him." 

"  Ah  !  he  was  lost !     How  long,  may  I  ask,  since  the  event  ?" 

"  We  know  not.  He  was  nearly  three  years  gone  from  Eng 
land  when  I  was  on  the  continent.  He  had  a  passion  for  the  sea ; 
became  captain  of  a  West  Indiaman  ;  afterward  took  out  a  private 
commission  against  the  French  and  Spaniards,  and  made  so  many 
captures,  that  he  came  to  own  a  privateer.  She  was  lost,  some 
where  along  the  Spanish  main.  This  must  have  been  about  the 
time  of  my  return  from  the  continent.  We  received  advices,  soon 
after  the  event,  which  left  no  doubt  of  his  fate." 

The  doctor  mused,  but  made  no  further  inquiries  on  this  head. 
Scarcely  had  the  dialogue  ceased  between  them,  when,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  all,  Olive  reappeared,  followed  closely  by  her  mother." 

"  She  would  come,  sir." 

Olive  interrupted  the  mother  with  a  smile,  and  with  such  seem 
ing  composure  and  strength  as  to  increase  the  general  surprise. 

"  I  felt  so  much  ashamed  of  my  temporary  weakness,  and  so 
nmch  better,  that  I  resolved  not  to  play  the  invalid." 


ESPIONAGE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART.        231 

The  husband  smiled  ;  the  doctor  mused.  The  latter  saw,  what 
the  former  did  not  —  so  much  was  he  pleased  with  the  unwonted 
event,  a  smile  from  Olive  —  that  her  presence,  smile,  and  speech, 
were  due  to  an  extreme  effort — a  will  rising  into  utmost  earnest 
ness,  in  obedience  to  some  exigent  motive. 

And  what  was  that  motive  ?  "  Quien  sabe  T'  says  the  Span 
iard.  What  the  cassique  said  need  not  be  repeated ;  the  doctor 
said  nothing,  but  meditated  much. 

And  throughout  the  day,  Olive  continued  to  sustain  herself,  in 
a  somewhat  more  cheerful  strain  than  usual,  but  by  what  the  doc 
tor  rightly  conceived  to  be  an  extraordinary  effort  of  will.  There 
was  excitement  as  before ;  great  unrest ;  frequent  uneasiness ;  a 
nervous  sensibility  to  sounds,  especially  of  the  human  voice ;  and 
an  anxiety  that  prompted  a  frequent  looking  around  her,  as  if  for 
some  expected  approach.  And  there  was  now  to  be  seen  occa 
sionally  a  sudden  crimson  flush  over  the  marble  whiteness  of  the 
cheeks,  which  passed  away,  as  with  a  flicker,  almost  the  moment 
it  appeared.  And  there  was  still  a  glazed  fixedness  of  the  eye, 
which  was  intensely  and  spiritually  bright. 

Lining  noted  all  these  symptoms.  He  had  every  opportunity. 
The  cassique  devised  as  many  methods  ss  possible  for  leaving  her 
in  his  presence  He  showed  him  over  the  whole  house,  not  ex 
cepting  the  chambers,  and  required  her  to  assist. 

"  My  uncle  will  inquire  about  everything,  and  you  must  be 
able  to  answer.  I  hope,  when  it  is  shown  how  easily  I  can 
transfer  the  comforts  of  an  English  to  a  Carolina  home,  to  beguile 
him  out  here  also,  where  he  can  properly  fill  the  dignity  of  the 
palatinate.  He  will  be  our  lord-palatine,  if  he  will  come  out. — 
By-t he-way,  Olive,  do  let  Lining  see  your  collection  of  Indian 
curiosities." 

They  were  shown. 

"  And  now,  Olive,  can 't  you  give  Lining  some  music  ?  Nay,  for 
that  matter,  give  me  some.  I  have  had  none  for  a  long  season. 
The  fact  is,  Lining,  we  have  had  such  an  infernal  clangor  of  ham 
mer  and  saw,  that  music  would  have  been  only  so  many  '  sweet 
bells,  jangled,  harsh,  and  out  of  tune,'  enveloped  in  the  perpetual 
din  !  But  now  —  what  say  you,  Olive,  my  dear?" 

And  she  rose  passively,  without  a  word,  and  went  to  the  harp 
sichord,  of  which  she  had  once  been  the  mistress. 


232  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Will  you  sing,  Lady  Berkeley  ?"  asked  Lining. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir ;  but  I  can  not  trust  my  voice  to-day —  scarcely 
my  fingers." 

The  chords  were  struck  :  the  hands  swept  the  keys  —  slowly  at 
first,  then  with  rapidly-increasing  fervor  as  the  symphonies  rose, 
following  out  the  caprices  and  gradual  swelling  of  the  human  pas 
sion  which  made  the  burden  of  the  piece.  It  might  have  been  a 
battle-piece,  though  it  expressed  only  the  conflicts  of  one  poor, 
suffering  human  heart. 

Did  she  play  from  memory,  or  was  it  a  fantasia  of  her  own  ? 
None  of  the  hearers  knew ;  and,  playing  on,  she  said  nothing ; 
while  the  instrument,  from  a  sad  complaining — a  merely  plaintive 
sighing  forth  of  a  secret  sorrow  —  rose  to  a  wail,  a  wild  burst  and 
outbreak  of  a  mortal  agony,  which  at  length  set  its  prison  restraints 
all  at  defiance. 

And  they  could  see  the  breast  of  the  player  heave  in  concert 
with  the  strain,  while  her  head  gradually  uplifted,  and  her  dilating 
eye  seemed  to  rest  upon  a  far  corner  of  the  ceiling  —  rapt,  as  it 
were,  with  some  unexpected  vision.  She  no  longer  watched  the 
keys  of  the  instrument.  She  no  longer  seemed  conscious  of  the 
persons  present.  But,  suddenly,  the  music  changed ;  the  notes 
fell ;  the  high,  passionate  tones  gave  way  to  vague,  feint,  faltering 
pulsations,  rather  than  beats,  varied  with  occasional  capriccios^ 
in  which  a  mocking  spirit  seemed  to  be  at  conflict  with  a  broken 
one:  and  so  the  strain  fell  —  no  longer  gush,  and  burst,  and  wild 
flight  of  music,  but  its  tear,  its  sigh,  its  broken,  faltering  accent, 
in  which  you  read  the  history  of  defeated  love,  departed  hope, 
the  wreck  of  a  beautiful  dream  of  stars  and  flowers,  and  the  thick 
night  closing  over  all !  Then  suddenly  it  stopped,  and  nothing 
was  heard  but  a  low,  ringing  echo  through  the  apartment,  2,3  if 
the  escaped  soul  only  lingered,  moaning  ere  it  went,  from  the 
once-beloved  abode ! 

And  there  was  a  strange  thrill  that  passed  over  the  frames  of 
the  two  strong  men.  They  felt  the  unnatural  power  of  the  strain. 
Was  it  simply  art  ?  Was  it  not  rather  the  inspiration  of  a  pas 
sionate  wo,  which  gladly  seizes  upon  the  stricken  one,  as  the  only 
mode  of  expression  and  relief? 

And  Olive  —  her  brow  is  still  uplifted.  Her  eye  rests  still 
upon  the  remote  ceiling.  Her  fingers  fall  suddenly  with  weight 


ESPIONAGE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART.        283 

upon  the  keys,  and  the  crash  which  follows  startles  her  out  of  her 
fancies.  Her  eyes  sink  down.  She  sees  the  cassique  and  the 
doctor  gazing  wistfully  upon  her ;  and,  with  a  slight  flush  upon 
her  cheek,  she  rises,  bows,  and  leaves  the  room. 

"  It  is  a  curious  case,  colonel,  and  not  to  be  judged  rashly.  We 
must  see  all  that  we  can,  yet  our  watch  must  be  unsuspected. 
You  must  warn  her  mother  on  this  point." 

Of  course,  the  scrutiny  was  difficult,  but  it  was  pursued  with  in 
dustry,  and  was  sufficiently  cautious.  Olive  did  not  seem  suspicious, 
but  she  was  shy ;  and,  though  her  general  deportment  continued 
pretty  much  the  same  throughout  the  day,  as  we  have  already 
described  it,  she  seemed  to  be  somewhat  more  than  usually  in 
clined  to  obey  her  mother's  injunction  "to  make  an  effort.'* 
Whether  it  was  because  of  the  presence  of  a  visiter,  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  disposed  "  to  try,"  and  behave  with  a  closer  regard 
to  conventional  requisitions.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
her  conduct;  only  in  her  appearance,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  ex 
pression  of  her  eye,  and  the  frequent  wanderings  of  her  thought, 
as  exhibited  in  her  general  manner. 

So  dinner  passed. 

In  the  afternoon,  Olive  had  disappeared.  The  nurse  had  taken 
out  the  child,  "  Young  Harry,"  into  the  great  avenue  of  oaks  of 
which  we  have  already  spoken ;  and,  whether  she  knew  the  fact 
or  not,  thither  Olive  had  also  gone.  Her  movements  were  con 
ducted  slyly.  She  had  left  the  gentlemen,  as  she  thought,  too 
deeply  engaged  in  the  library  to  be  conscious  of  her  absence.  So, 
too,  she  believed  her  mother  to  be  in  her  chamber,  when,  slipping 
out  of  the  back  door,  she  stole  off  to  the  thicket. 

But  they  were  all  on  the  alert. 

It  was  in  the  deepest  and  shadiest  part  of  the  grove,  that,  watch* 
ing  from  a  thick  covert,  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Masterton  beheld  the 
young  mother  busied  with  the  child.  She  had  taken  him  from 
the  nurse,  who  had  wandered  a  few  hundred  yards  farther  on. 
Olive  tossed  the  child  in  her  arms,  sat  with  him  upon  the  ground, 
kissed  him  repeatedly,  and  hung  over  his  shiny  round  face  with 
the  deepest  interest,  perusing  every  line  and  feature.  And  be 
tween  the  kisses  and  this  study,  big  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  upon 
the  blooming,  red  cheeks  of  the  infant,  while  broken  murmurs— 
"  My  Harry  !  my  Harry  !"  escaped  her  unconscious  lips. 


234  1HE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Mrs.  Masterton,  as  she  saw  this,  could  not  help  saying,  very 
audibly  — 

"  How  I  wish  Sir  Edward  could  only  see  this !" 

A  low  voice  behind  her  said : — 

"  Hush,  madam  !  —  not  a  word  !  Pie  does  see  !  Now,  madam, 
steal  away,  as  I  shall  do,  and  do  not,  for  the  world,  suffer  yourself 
to  be  seen." 

The  cassique,  accompanied  by  the  physician,  stole  back  to  the 
house,  with  a  heart  even  lighter  than  his  steps.  He  was  dis 
abused  at  least  of  one  of  his  most  cruel  apprehensions.  The  doc 
tor  encouraged  him. 

"  She  weeps ;  she  loves  the  child ;  has  emotions ;  is  not  indif 
ferent.  But  it  is  evident  that  these  joys  of  the  mother  are  sought 
only  in  secrecy.  There  is  some  secret  anxiety — there  is  some 
suspicion  ;  and  this  argues — " 

"  A  want  of  sympathy  with  those  about  her !"  answered  the  cas 
sique,  and  in  rather  gloomy  tones,  completing  the  sentence  which 
Lining  seemed  reluctant  to  finish. 

"  Precisely  so !" 

"  But,  whether  the  discovery  of  the  cause  of  this  will  enable  vis 
to  do  anything  by  which  to  relieve  her  mind  from  this  tension  ? — * 

"  If  she  could  be  disabused  of  the  cause  of  suspicion — " 

"  Yes,  and  that  depends  upon  a  knowledge  of  the  suspicion 
itself." 

"  You  must  beware  how  you  question  her,  Colonel  Berkeley." 

"Yes!  —  you  are  right.  That  should  never  be  done  by  me. 
It  would  be  something  worse  than  bad  policy.  It  would  be  an 
abuse  of  the  relationship  between  us.  The  confidence  of  man  and 
wife  must  be  involuntary.  To  attempt  to  force  it,  on  his  part, 
would  be  a  base  and  unmanly  despotism.  That  it  is  not  given 
here,  Doctor  Lining,  is  the  most  humiliating  annoyance  which  I 
have  been  called  on  tD  bear.  I  must  endure  it  as  1  may !" 

"  Time,  my  dear  colonel,  is  the  best  medicine.  Give  her  that, 
and  she  will  do  you  justice.  What  sort  of  woman  is  her  mother, 
and  how  can  she  aid  you  ?" 

The  cassique  answered  with  a  gravity  and  sternness  that  looked 
a  little  like  ferocity.  Laying  his  hand  on  the  wrist  of  Lining,  he 
said : — 

"  She  is  a  fool,  sir,  with  an  empty  head  and  a  cold,  selfish  heart 


ESPIONAGE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART.        235 

She  is,  I  fancy,  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  mischief;  but  in  what  way 
I  can  not  conceive.  I  have  had  to  check  her  in  a  frequent  at 
tempt  to  exercise  an  authority  in  my  house,  and  in  regard  to  my 
wife,  which  is  at  variance  with  mine.  I  have  had  also  to  warn 
her  in  regard  to  a  system  of  annoyance,  practised  on  Olive,  since 
she  has  been  in  this  condition ;  the  silly  mother  having  no  real 
conception  of  the  daughter's  danger,  and  perhaps  contributing  to 
it  all  the  while  by  the  perpetual  prying,  and  questioning,  and 
counselling,  of  a  very  restless  and  ridiculous  tongue.  She  is  one 
of  those  fools  of  society  with  whom  hearts  are  nothing ;  who  would 
sacrifice  all  the  best  sympathies  —  ay,  virtues  —  to  the  empty 
pomps  and  miserable  exhibitions  of  social  vanity,  and  what  is  called 
'  high  life" !  You  know  the  animal  as  it  exists  in  English  society : 
she  is  one  of  its  most  absurd  specimens." 

When  the  unconscious  Olive  came  in  from  her  ramble,  her 
mother  was  safely  in  her  chamber,  and  the  gentlemen  still  con 
versing  in  the  library.  She  met  them  at  supper,  where  nothing 
remarkable  occurred ;  Lining  still  keeping  a  vigilant  watch,  while 
Berkeley  was  at  pains  to  maintain  the  deception  which  proclaimed 
the  former  to  be  a  simple  guest,  on  his  return  to  Europe. 

The  next  day  the  doctor  took  his  departure.  He  encouraged 
the  cassique  to  hope  everything  from  time.  He  could  do  no 
more.  He  could  only  counsel  equal  forbearance  and  solicitude. 
The  symptoms  of  Olive,  that  day,  were  the  same.  They  seemed 
to  increase  after  the  doctor  left,  but  not  in  any  degree  to  produce 
apprehension.  It  was  a  sufficient  source  of  anxiety  to  the  cas 
sique  that  they  continued.  At  all  events,  something  had  been 
gained.  He  had  seen  her  caressing  "  Young  Harry"  as  only  a 
loving  mother  could  caress ;  and  he  was  so  far  satisfied. 


236  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK. 

There  is  a  something  haunts  me,  most  like  madness, 

As  reason  comprehends  it.     But  the  presence 

Is  not  the  less  a  presence  to  the  spirit, 

As  it  'scapes  human  touch  !     The  immortal  vision 

Makes  itself  evident  to  the  immortal  nature, 

When  the  coarse  fingers  stiffen  into  palsy, 

And  can  grasp  nothing  !" 

BUT,  that  night ! 

Alas  for  her,  the  suffering  woman,  the  victim  to  a  false  system 
and  a  falser  heart !  Alas  for  him,  the  brave,  noble  man,  lied  to, 
and  defrauded  of  his  peace  and  hope  —  of  all  that  is  precious  to 
the  soul  and  sympathies  —  by  the  same  base,  pernicious  system, 
the  same  false,  vain,  worthless  agency  !  Alas  for  the  world  which 
never  sets  out  honestly  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness ;  which  only 
seeks  for  shams ;  which  ignores  the  affections,  in  behalf  of  the 
vanities ;  and  sacrifices  the  soul,  that  was  designed  for  heaven,  in 
the  chase  after  things  of  earth  —  and  oh,  so  earthy !  Alas  !  alas  ! 
we  may  well  wring  hands,  and  weep  over  these  terrible  sacrifices, 
made  daily,  ay,  hourly,  on  the  altars  of  false  gods  —  frogs,  and 
toads,  and  apes,  and  monkeys  —  baser  things  even  than  ever  were 
those  set  up  by  African  and  Egyptian ! 

Lining  gone,  and  the  cassique  alone,  he  busied  himself,  as  usual, 
with  his  workmen  during  the  day,  and  at  night  gave  himself  up  to 
solitary  reading  and  reflection  in  the  library.  His  family  gave 
him  no  succor,  no  companionship.  Those  blissful  evenings  of 
which  he  had  dreamed,  of  rural  happiness  and  sweet  content  in 
the  primitive  forest ;  cheered  with  the  smiles  and  songs  of  love ; 
a  calm  of  heaven  over  the  household,  and  a  brooding  peace,  like  a 
dove  in  its  happy  cote,  sitting  beside  his  hearth  anJ  making  k 


LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK.        237 

glad  with  serenest  joys  —  these  were  dreams  which  he  no  longer 
hoped  to  realize.  His  wife  evidently  shrank  from  his  companion 
ship.  She  was  never  at  ease  when  alone  with  him.  She  would 
sing  if  he  required  it,  but  not  speak ;  would  answer  meekly  to  his 
questions  and  demands — listen  with  seemingly  attentive  ear  to  all 
he  said  —  but  make  no  responsive  remark.  She  had  no  voice 
echoing  to  that  frank  one,  speaking  from  his  heart,  which  had 
ever  striven,  but  how  vainly,  to  find  the  answering  chord  in  hers ! 

Yes,  he  knew  that  she  could  speak  —  well,  gracefully,  thought 
fully,  and  with  equal  truth  of  sentiment  and  sweetness  of  expres 
sion.  He  knew  that  she  had  taste  and  fancy,  which  are  in  them 
selves  always  suggestive.  He  knew  that,  in  addition  to  a  good 
natural  intellect,  she  had  gathered  stores  from  books,  which,  if  her 
mind  were  allowed  free  play,  would  make  her  a  charming  com 
panion.  He  remembered  that  she  was  so  considered  by  all  ere 
she  became  his  wife ;  and  was  painfully  reminded  by  this  fact 
that  he,  too,  had  found  her  so,  in  the  days  of  his  first  intimacy 
with  her,  and  before  any  suspicion  was  entertained  that  he  sought 
her  for  his  wife.  The  cruel  inference  forced  itself  upon  him  irre 
sistibly —  "It  is  I  who  have  changed  her  thus  !" 

Yet  how  had  he  changed  her  ?  Not,  surely,  by  harshness  of 
usage  ;  not  by  lack  of  sympathy ;  not  because  of  any  failure  of  his 
own  heart  to  bring  out  the  secrets  of  hers.  He  had  no  self- 
reproaches  on  this  score.  He  felt  that  he  had  always  been  gentle, 
soothing,  solicitously  heedful  of  her  needs,  her  possible  wishes,  her 
happiness  and  comfort.  The  further  conclusion  was  inevitable : — 

"  Jt  is  only  because  of  a  lack  of  sympathy  with  me.  She  never 
loved  me.  She  must  have  loved  another ! . . . .  But  why  did  she 
consent  to  become  my  wife  ?" 

Here,  thought  brought  him  again  to  the  probable  conclusion : — 

"  It  was  submission  to  a  mother's  will.  That  cunning,  cold, 
selfish,  calculating  woman  has  done  it  all !  And  there  is  no  rem 
edy  !  God !  what  a  prospect  lies  before  us  both  !  What  a  waste 
of  life,  of  affections,  of  soul,  and  thought,  and  feeling!  —  a  gloomy 
waste,  over  which  we  must  travel  together,  without  speech  or 
hearing  between  us  —  all  in  silence ;  not  a  flower  by  the  wayside  ; 
not  a  fountain  in  the  desert;  nothing  to  refresh  —  death  in  the 
privation  through  which  we  live,  and  death  the  final  goal !  And 
she  will  die  !  she  will  die  !  Whatever  this  secret  struggle  in  her 


288  THE   CASSIQUE   OF  KIAWAH. 

soul,  and  however  caused,  she  can  not  endure  it  long !     She  wiU 
die  !" 

Such  were  his  musings  in  the  library  till  the  deep  hours  of  mid 
night  closed  in  upon  him.  Then,  with  a  sense  of  weariness  rather 
than  sleep,  he  retired  to  his  chamber. 

It  was  hers  also. 

The  simple  world  in  which  our  cassique  lived  had  not  yet 
reached  that  degree  of  graceful  domesticity  which  allows  husband 
and  wife  separate  apartments ;  and,  with  gentle  footsteps,  Colonel 
Berkeley  proceeded  to  Olive's  chamber  without  waking  a  single 
echo. 

A  dim  light  was  burning  in  the  chimney-place  as  he  entered. 
He  approached  the  couch  where  she  was  sleeping.  She  slept,  but 
not  profoundly ;  at  least,  she  showed  herself  restless.  Her  arms 
were  occasionally  tossed  about  her  head,  and  sighs  and  faintly- 
murmured  accents  escaped  her  lips.  He  watched  her  for  awhile, 
then  undressed  himself  quietly,  and  with  the  most  cautious  move 
ment,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  repose,  laid  himself  down  beside 
her.  But  not  to  sleep. 

An  hour  passes ;  her  sleep  seems  to  deepen,  but  she  is  even 
more  restless  than  before.  He  hears  the  occasional  murmur  from 
her  lips,  accompanied  sometimes  by  a  wild  movement  of  her  hand. 
At  lengh  he  distinguishes  her  broken  syllables. 

No !  no  !  do  not,  dear  mother — do  not !     I  pray  you,  no  more 
—  no  more  of  this  !" 

This  was  all.  What  could  it  mean  ?  What  did  that  mother 
propose  to  do,  which  was  so  painful  to  her  child  ? 

The  cassique  closes  his  eyes.  He  would  not  hear.  At  least, 
he  will  not  listen.  But  the  accents  reach  him  still,  more  earnestly 
expressed,  with  keener  feeling,  and  a  still  sadder  pleading.  They 
are  rendered  distinct  now  by  reason  of  their  increasing  intensity : 

"  You  will  kill  me,  mother !  I  do  not  believe  it !  I  tell  you 
he  lives  ;  and  1  must  live  for  him  —  for  him  only  !  I  can  never 
be  another's.  I  will  die  first !" 

A  cold  sweat  covered  the  brow  of  the  cassique.  He  raised 
himself  on  one  arm.  He  could  not  help  but  listen  now.  The 
matter  was  too  full  of  significance,  as  involving  his  own  peace 
quite  as  much  as  hers : — 

"  Tell  me  nothing  of  these  things,  mother.     Why  should  they 


LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK.        239 

affect  us  ?  To  be  sure,  we  are  poor.  But  why  should  you  make 
me  poorer  ?  Why  rob  me  of  that  faith  which  makes  me  smile  at 
poverty  ?  I  care  for  nothing  beyond.  His  wealth  is  nothing  in 
my  sight.  Society!  —  But  what  to  me  is  the  crowd  and  noise 
which  you  call  'society'?  Peace,  rather — let  me  be  at  peace, 
dear  mother,  if  you  would  not  drive  me  mad !" 

The  cassique  groaned  audibly ;  but  the  sound  did  not  disturb 
the  sleeper.  Her  voice  became  freer  —  her  language  more  im 
pressive  : — 

"  Well,  he  is  dead  !  You  have  rung  it  in  my  ears  so  often,  that 
the  sense  deadens.  I  do  not  see  now  so  much  meaning  in  what 
you  tell  me.  He  is  dead  —  dead  —  dead!  In  the  deep  sea — 
wrecked,  drowned;  and  I  shall  never  be  his  wife  —  shall  never 
see  him  more  !  Well,  you  see  I  understand  it  all !  You  need 
not  tell  me  that  again.  I  can  say  it  to  myself,  and  it  does  not 
pain  me.  But  it  sounds  horribly  from  your  lips.  It  makes  you 
look  hateful  in  my  sight.  Don't  you  say  it  again,  mother  —  do 
you  hear?  —  if  you  would  not  have  me  hate  you  !  I  will  say  it 
for  you.  He  is  dead  —  Harry  is  dead  —  and  I  shall  never  be  his 
wife  !  There  !  are  you  satisfied  ? . . . . 

"But"  —  after  a  short  pause  —  "is  that  any  reason  why  you 
should  force  me  to  be  the  wife  of  another  ?  Is  there  any  sense  in 
that  ?  Let  him  die,  too ;  tell  him  to  drown !  Yes,  let  us  both 
die  and  drown  in  the  deep  sea!  It's  just  as  well  we  should.  li 
can't  be  so  dreadful,  since  he  was  drowned  in  it.  And  the  song 
tells  us  the  same  thing.  No,  it  can  not  be  dreadful." 

Here  she  sang,  without  effort,  in  the  lowest  but  sweetest  and 
clearest  tones,  the  ballad  from  "The  Tempest:" — 

"  '  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies, 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
These  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange  !' 

«  Ah  ! " 

A  deep  sigh  ended  the  ballad — -a  long-drawn  sigh  —  and  the 
lips  closed  for  a  space.  There  was  silence  for  awhile  in  the  cham 
ber  ;  but  not  for  long.  Her  lips  again  began  to  murmur  Then 
there  was  a  sort  of  cry,  something  between  a  laugh  and  sob,  and 
she  spoke  out  audibly : — 


240  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

**  Said  I  not  it  was  all  false  ?  I  knew  it  all  the  while.  He  is 
not  dead  !  There  was  no  drowning !  He  lives !  He  comes  for 
me  !  I  shall  see  him  again  !  I  shall  be  his  wife  —  his  wife — no 
other's  !  Ah,  Harry,  dear  Harry,  you  are  come  !  They  told  me 
you  were  dead,  Harry — that  you  were  dead  and  buried  in  the  deep 
sea.  But  you  are  come  at  last.  They  shall  never  part  us  again  !" 

And  she  rose  in  the  bed,  in  a  sitting  posture,  threw  out  her 
arms,  clasped  the  cassique  about  his  neck,  and  their  eyes  met,  and 
she  stared  fixedly  into  his,  and,  throwing  herself  upon  his  bosom, 
murmured  fondly — 

"  Dear  Harry,  you  are  come  at  last !" 

Her  eyes  were  open  wide,  full  —  looking  with  dazed  stare  into 
those  of  her  husband.  But  their  sense  was  shut.  At  all  events, 
the  illusion  was  complete ;  and  she  suffered  him  to  lay  her  back 
upon  the  pillow,  which  he  did  very  gently ;  while,  still  looking 
into  his  eyes,  or  seeming  to  look,  she  murmured  repeatedly : — 

"You  are  come  —  you  are  come  at  last,  my  Harry!  I  knew 
that  you  would  come !" 

The  cassique  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  rose,  dressed  him 
self  deliberately,  and  went  forth.  She  was  again  asleep  —  con 
tentedly,  it  would  seem — for  her  lips  were  closed:  her  murmurs 
for  the  time  had  ceased. 

The  unhappy  husband  had  heard  enough.  There  was  no 
longer  any  mystery.  His  own  thoughts  had  led  him  to  a  right 
conjecture ;  and  her  unconscious  lips  had  confirmed  it  in  the  in 
tensity  of  her  dreams.  Nature  had  compelled  the  utterance  of 
those  agonies  of  thought  and  feeling,  in  her  sleep,  which  in  her 
waking  moments  she  would  have  died  sooner  than  he  should  hear. 

All  was  confirmed  to  him  of  despair.  He  walked  the  woods 
during  the  weary  hours  of  that  night.  At  morning  he  ordered 
his  horse.  He  summoned  the  mother  to  the  woods  as  soon  as  she 
had  risen  —  led  her  to  a  deep  part  of  the  thicket,  and,  confronting 
her  with  a  brow  of  too  much  sorrow  for  anger,  he  said  to  her : — 

"  Madam,  you  have  betrayed  your  daughter  to  her  ruin !  You 
have  deceived  me  to  mine  !  You  have  been  false  to  both  !  You 
assured  me  that  there  was  no  other  preferred  suitor  to  Olive  Mas- 
terton.  You  solemnly  affirmed  her  entire  freedom  from  all  ties ; 
that  she  was  heart-whole,  until  she  had  been  sought  by  mine! 
And  you  knew  that  all  this  was  false." 


LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK.        241 

"  False,  Sir  Edward  ?" 

"Ay,  madam,  false  as  hell  I  Nay,  madam,  do  not  assume  that 
look  of  virtuous  indignation.  It  does  not  suit  you  to  wear  it !  It 
would  become  me  better,  whom  you  have  so  terribly  deceived,  but 
that  indignation  is  too  feeble  a  sentiment  to  him  who  has  begun 
the  lesson  of  despair.  You  have  crushed  that  poor  child's  heart, 
madam ;  you  have  trampled  upon  mine  !  She  will  die,  and  you 
will  have  murdered  her  !  She  has  death  now  in  her  heart !  For 
tunate  only,  thrice  fortunate,  if  madness  shall  so  usurp  the  func 
tions  of  the  brain  as  to  make  her  insensible  to  the  agonies  of  a 
prolonged  dying !" 

"  Really,  Sir  Edward,  these  are  monstrous  charges.  I  should 
almost  doubt  your  own  sanity.  Pray,  sir,  what  are  your  discov 
eries,  that  you  venture  to  charge  such  heinous  crimes  to  my 
account  ?" 

"  Ask  your  own  conscience,  madam  !  You  assured  me  of  Olive's 
freedom  !" 

"  Well,  she  was  free  !  There  was  a  person,  with  whom  she 
had  formed  some  childish  engagements ;  but  he  died  before  you 
returned  from  the  continent.  I  think,  sir,  you  will  admit  that  the 
tie,  slight  as  it  was,  between  them,  was  fully  broken  by  that  event." 

"Even  that,  madam,  I  am  not  prepared  to  admit.  It  would 
have  made  some  difference  to  me,  at  least,  to  have  known  the 
fact.  This  you  withheld  from  me.  Nay,  madam,  more:  you 
denied  that  her  heart  had  ever  been  committed." 

u  Well,  sir,  even  in  that  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  ques 
tion  my  truth.  A  childish  entanglement,  such  as  Olive's,  does  not 
necessarily  imply  the  committal  of  the  heart." 

"  Perhaps  not  necessarily,  perhaps  not  at  all,  in  that  convention 
in  which  you  have  had  your  training,  madam." 

"  My  training,  sir !  And  what  should  be  my  training  ?  My 
family,  Sir  Edward  Berkeley,  I  take  leave  to  say,  is  quite  as  old, 
and  as  fortunate  in  its  connections  and  society,  as  were  ever  those 
of  the  houses  of  Berkeley  and  Craven." 

"  Perhaps  so,  madam  ;  it  is  a  subject  upon  which  I  do  not  care 
to  waste  a  syllable.  Enough  that  you  assured  me  solemnly  that 
your  daughter  had  committed  her  affections  neither  in  fact  nor  in 
language ;  that  she  was  totally  free,  and  had  always  been  so.," 

"  I  certainly  never  attached  any  importance  to  the  childish  en- 

11 


242  THK   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

tanglement  of  which  I  have  spoken ;  especially  when  it  had  been 
ruptured  by  the  death  of  one  of  the  parties — " 

"  Stay,  madam.  This  engagement,  which  you  describe  as  child 
ish,  had  continued  up  to  the  moment  when  I  addressed  your 
daughter.  She  was  then  eighteen  —  an  age  when  we  are  apt  to 
suspect  that  the  affections  may  be  quite  as  tenacious  of  their  ob 
ject  as  they  are  fond  and  warm  in  their  conception  of  it.  You 
may  remember,  madam,  that  I  was  especially  anxious  on  this 
point,  and  shaped  my  questions  to  you  emphatically  in  respect  to 
any  committal  whatsoever  of  your  daughter's  heart." 

*'  So  you  did,  Sir  Edward,"  the  lady  answered,  querulously ; 
"but  these  are  questions  of  course  with  all  young  men  —  all  of 
whom  have  a  notion  that  if  they  have  not  been  a  first  object  in  a 
girl's  fancy,  they  are  robbed  of  some  of  their  natural  rights.  But 
people  of  experience  know  the  absurdity  of  such  a  notion ;  and 
know  that  girls  rarely  marry  the  persons  whom  they  happen  to 
fancy  in  their  teens.  It  is  the  fancy  only,  not  the  affections,  that 
makes  their  prepossession ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  thought 
ful  parents  are  required  to  be  so  vigilant  in  giving  the  proper 
guidance  to  their  daughters  in  all  affairs  of  the  heart.  It  should 
be  enough,  Sir  Edward,  for  you,  that  I  took  proper  heed  to  Olive ; 
seeing  that  she  did  not  fling  herself  away  upon  a  worthless  person, 
and  that  she  was  provided  with  one  of  whom  the  whole  world  of 
English  society  had  but  one  opinion.  I  have  no  reason  to  regret 
the  choice  I  made  for  Olive." 

"  Better,  madam,  a  thousand  times,  that  you  had  suffered  her 
to  make  her  own  choice  !  Your  appeal  to  my  vanity  does  not 
lessen  one  atom  the  agony  you  have  forced  into  my  heart.  But 
tell  me,  madam,  who  was  the  person  with  whom  Olive  had  this 
childish  entanglement  ?" 

"  You  do  not  know  that,  then  ?"  she  exclaimed,  as  inadvertently 
as  exultingly.  "  Then  you  will  permit  me  to  be  silent,  Sir  Ed 
ward.  You  will  never  hear  it  from  me  !" 

"  Mrs.  Masterton,  when  I  was  so  urgent  with  you  touching  any 
previous  engagement  or  committal  of  Olive,  I  had  a  serious  rea 
son  for  it.  Rumors  had  reached  my  ears  that  there  had  been  an 
engagement  —  that  one  was  actually  existing  then — between  her 
and  one  whom  I  loved  as  dearly  as  I  could  have  loved  any  wo 
man  upon  earth  !  That  was  my  poor  brother  Harry.  His  death 


LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK.        243 

would  have  made  no  difference  in  my  conduct  in  respect  to  one 
v;bom  I  should  have  conceived  to  be  his  widow  !  She  would  have 
been  sacred  to  me.  I  should  have  been  satisfied,  in  such  a  case, 
to  stand  in  relation  with  her  as  a  most  loving  and  faithful  brother 
—  nothing  more !  I  was  therefore  urgent  with  you  on  this  point. 
And  this  was  the  very  point  upon  which  you  deceived  me.  Never 
did  human  being  speak  more  confidently  than  yourself.  Never 
were  asseverations  made  with  more  solemnity.  I  hinted  at  my 
brother's  intimacy  with  the  family.  You  spoke  of  him  as  one 
little  known,  who  had  not  been  seen  for  long  seasons ;  who  had 
taken  but  little  interest  in  your  family,  and  scarcely  knew  any 
thing  of  Olive." 

"  You  put  it  too  strongly,  Sir  Edward." 

"  God  be  my  witness,  if  I  say  one  word  too  much !  On  this 
point,  madam,  I  was  very  urgent.  The  mere  doubt,  arising  from 
the  simplest  rumor,  was  enough  for  me.  Charmed  as  I  was  with 
Olive,  had  I  not  received  your  assurances  to  the  contrary,  I  had 
foregone  all  my  own  pretensions.  I  should  then  have  honored  her 
as  my  brother's  betrothed  —  as  his  wife  —  as  a  dear  sister,  who 
should  have  had  my  life  if  she  desired  it,  but  never  a  single  avowal 
which  would  have  brought  pain  to  her  bosom.  If  you  have  de 
ceived  me  on  this  subject,  as  you  have  on  others,  Mrs.  Masterton, 
then  may  God  forgive  you  —  I  can  not!  I  will  not  curse,  will 
not  spurn  you.  You  are  a  woman,  but — and  even  now  you  can 
somewhat  relieve  me.  Say,  madam,  tell  me,  for  mercy's  sake  — 
tell  me  that  my  brother  had  no  interest  in  the  heart  of  Olive  Mas 
terton  !" 

The  cold,  selfish,  high-bred  woman  did  not  scruple  at  a  lie. 

"  As  God  hears  me,  Sir  Edward,  Harry  Berkeley  was  not  the 
person !" 

"  Yet  his  name  was  Harry,  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  his  name  was  Harry,  too  !" 

"A  singular  coincidence!"  replied  the  cassique ;  then  added: 
"  May  God  forgive  you  your  other  offences,  madam,  only  as  you 
have  spoken  truth  in  this  matter !  You  have,  at  all  events,  taken 
one  sting  of  agony  from  my  soul !" 

He  turned  away  abruptly  as  he  said  these  words,  and  hurried 
to  the  covert  where  his  horse  awaited  him  —  leaped  upon  him,  and 
disappeared  for  several  hours.  As  hf  »vent  from  sight,  the  Hon- 


244  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

orable  Mrs.  Masterton  drew  a  deep  sigh,  as  of  relief.  She  had 
gone  through  a  severe  passage ;  but  her  stubborn,  rigid  nature 
never  shrunk  from  the  pressure  put  upon  it. 

"  How  could  he  have  found  it  out?"  she  demanded  of  herself. 
"  Yet  how  fortunate  he  did  not  find  out  the  whole !  He  shall  never 
hear  it  from  me  that  Harry  Berkeley,  his  own  brother,  was  in 
truth  his  rival !  And  I  must  see  that  Olive  makes  him  no  wiser. 
She  is  fool  enough  to  tell  everything !" 

And  she  chuckled  aloud  with  the  grateful  conviction  that  she 
had  been  able  to  lie  successfully. 

But  her  day  was  not  yet  ended.  At  breakfast,  when  the  cas- 
sique  did  not  appear,  Olive  asked  — 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  Rode  off  an  hour  ago,  very  fast — I  suspect  to  the  city." 

"  He  is  gone  for  the  day,  then  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"Ah !"  —  and  the  exclamation  was  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  servant  was  in  waiting,  and  no  more  was  said  at  the  mo 
ment.  But  when  the  mother  retired  to  her  own  apartment,  Olive 
suddenly  made  her  appearance.  Her  eyes  were  wild  with  light ; 
her  cheeks  were  slightly  flushed ;  her  whole  appearance  indicated 
increase  of  excitement. 

The  mother  was  struck  with  some  alarm.  She  remembered 
what  the  cassique  had  said :  "  She  will  die  !  Happy  if  madness 
do  but  usurp  the  functions  of  the  brain,  so  as  to  relieve  her  from 
the  long  consciousness  of  dying !" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Olive?" 

The  young  wife  looked  about  her  suspiciously,  closed  the  door, 
and  locked  it ;  then  said,  approaching  her  mother  with  great  eager 
ness,  while  her  eye  glittered  almost  fiercely  : — 

"He  is  not  dead!  He  lives  —  Harry  Berkeley !  —  he  lives! 
He  has  spoken  with  me.  I  have  seen  him  face  to  face !" 

"  You  dream,  Olive !  What  can  you  mean  ?  The  thing  is 
ridiculous.  The  man  you  speak  of  has  been  dead,  I  tell  you, 
more  than  eighteen  months." 

"  And  I  tell  you,  mother,  that  he  is  not  dead  !  He  lives.  You 
have  deceived  me — betrayed  me  —  oh,  how  dreadfully  betrayed 
me  !  O  mother,  mother  !  how  could  you  wrong  me  so  ?" 

The  mother  was  almost  stupefied  by  the   successive  assaults 


LURID  GLEAMS  THROUGH  THE  DARK.        245 

upon  her — doubly  bewildered,  as  she  had  been  so  solemnly 
warned  by  the  cassique  in  what  manner  she  spoke  to  Olive,  lest 
she  should  drive  her  to  madness.  And  this  was  madness !  Of 
Harry  Berkeley's  death  by  sea,  Mrs.  Masterton,  to  do  her  justice, 
had  no  sort  of  question.  But,  uncertain  what  to  say,  lest  she 
should  increase  the  mental  infirmities  of  her  daughter,  the  wise 
woman  of  good  society  was  yet  compelled  to  say  something,  how 
ever  little  to  the  purpose. 

"I  betray  you,  Olive ?  I  deceive  you?  Was  ever  so  cruel  a 
charge  brought  against  a  mother;  and  a  mother — I  am  proud  to 
say  it — who  has  done  everything  for  her  child?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  have  done  for  me  !  What  made  you  tell  me 
such  a  falsehood ?  Who  told  you  that  Harry  was  drowned? 
Where  did  you  £•[>*:  that  letter?" 

"  From  Ivison.  He  wrote  it.  He  knew  the  facts.  He  was 
one  of  the  survivors  in  the  long-boat.  He  saw  the  pinnace  go 
down,  with  all  in  her." 

"He  lied  to  you,  mother !  The  pinnace  did  not  go  down  — 
I  'm  sure  of  it.  Harry  escaped  to  the  shore.  I  know  it  now ! 
Hark  you!"  —  and  she  bent  forward,  and  whispered  —  "it  is  a 
secret  yet — a  secret  —  and  we  must  study  what  to  do  with  it. 
But  Harry  is  alive  !  I  have  seen  and  spoken  with  him,  nightly, 
the  last  five  nights  !" 

u  Seen — spoken  with  him,  Olive  !     And  where,  pray?" 

"  In  my  chamber  !  He  comes  and  wakens  me  out  of  my  sleep ; 
he  sits  by  me,  and  talks  to  me,  and  wraps  me  in  his  arms  so 
fondly !  Oh,  yes,  he  loves  me  as  much  as  ever,  though  he  re 
proaches  me  that  I  have  been  false  to  him.  But  I  told  him  all. 
I  laid  the  blame  on  you ;  told  him  how  you  had  sworn  to  me  that 
he  was  lost  in  the  deep  sea ;  that  the  great  ocean  had  gone  over 
him ;  that  I  should  never  be  his  wife  —  that  I  should  never  see 
him  more.  Then  he  said  to  me,  as  I  have  so  often  said  to  myself, 
*  But  why  should  you,  Olive  Masterton,  become  the  wife  of  an 
other?'  Then  I  answered  him — yes,  I  answered  out,  mother  — 
though  'twas  all  said  in  a  whisper,  for  shame  —  shame  for  you, 
mother  —  then  I  answered :  '  It  was  for  the  cassique's  gold,  Harry  ! 
I  was  bought  and  sold,  like  an  African  from  the  Gold-coast,  though 
they  did  not  call  it  selling — they  only  called  it  marriage  !'  I  told 
him  it  really  was  not  marriage — only  a  sham;  and  that,  in  my 


246  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   K1AWAH. 

heart,  I  had  only  one  husband,  and  that  was  himself!  And  he 
forgave  me,  mother,  and  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  said  I  was  in 
truth  his  wife,  and  the  other  marriage  was  all  a  sham !" 

"  My  child,  you  have  been  dreaming.  This  is  nothing  but  a 
dream." 

"  Mother,  I  say  I  saw  him  face  to  face,  as  close  as  your  face  is 
now  to  mine  !  He  was  in  the  bed  with  me  !  He  took  me  in  his 
arms,  and  laid  me  down  upon  the  pillow  ;  and  he  had  been  talking 
with  me  long  before.  I  knew  that  I  was  not  dreaming.  I  was 
broad  awake.  It  was  like  no  dream  !  It  was  all  a  reality.  Yes, 
mother,  my  true  husband,  Harry,  is  alive !" 

We  may  readily  conceive  what  were  the  arguments  used  by  the 
mother  to  persuade  her  that  she  dreamed. 

"  How  could  he  be  here,  Olive  ?  how  get  into  your  chamber  ? 
The  cassique  was  here  —  has  slept  with  you  every  night.  No 
body  else  could  enter  your  chamber.  If  Harry  Berkeley  were 
living,  he  would  never  dare  to  do  so." 

"  Harry  Berkeley  would  do  everything,  mother,  to  protect  his  wife." 

"  But  you  are  not  his  wife,  Olive !  He  might  love  you,  and 
you  love  him ;  but  he  has  no  lawful  right  in  you.  You  are  mar 
ried  to  his  brother ;  you  are  the  lawful  wife  of  the  cassique  ;  and, 
if  Harry  Berkeley  were  living,  he  would  know  that,  and  would 
know  that  it  would  ruin  you  for  ever  were  he  to  come  into  your 
chamber.  Only  think,  Olive,  if  Harry  were  living,  and  the  broth 
ers  were  to  meet — do  you  not  see  that  they  would  fight?  They 
would  take  each  other  by  the  throat ;  they  would  draw  deadly 
weapons  upon  each  other ;  and  there  would  be  murder ;  one  or 
both  of  them  would  be  slain  !" 

"  O  my  God,  mother !  what  do  you  tell  me  ?  Yet  it  is  true  ! 
They  would  butcher  each  other ;  and  you,  mother,  would  be  the 
cause  of  it  all !  Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  only  been  dream 
ing  ?  And  everything  was  so  real,  so  actual,  and  so  sweet !  My 
poor  head,  how  it  aches  with  thinking !" 

"You  must  go  to  bed — must  lie  down,  my  child,  and  try  to 
get  some  rest.  And  remember,  all  the  while,  what  a  dreadful 
thing  it  would  be  for  the  cassique  even  to  guess  that  you  had 
loved  his  brother,  and  he  you  !" 

"  What !  did  you  not  tell  him,  mother  ?  You  promised  me  you 
would.'' 


LURID    GLEAMS    THROUGH   THR   DARK.  247 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  not  such  a  fool !  What  was  the  use,  my  child, 
when  we  knew  that  Harry  was  dead  ?" 

"  I  can  not  think  him  dead.  I  feel  him  all  around  me.  I  seem 
to  breathe  the  same  air  with  him ;  I  seem  to  hear  his  voice  at  mo 
ments  ;  and,  sometimes,  to  catch  the  bright  flash  of  his  great  blue 
eyes.  Oh,  no !  it  is  impossible  to  think  him  dead.  You  have 
made  me  doubt  something,  but  not  that  he  is  living  still." 

"  You  must  lie  down,  my  child,  and  try  to  sleep.  I  will  give 
you  some  drops  to  compose  your  nerves.  But  not  a  word  of  this 
dreaming  to  the  cassique  !  Forget  these  fancies.  They  are  mere 
delusions  of  the  brain.  You  have  been  strangely  excited  for  the 
last  few  days." 

"  Yes,  I  will  lie  down.  I  feel  sure  he  will  come  to  me  again, 
mother,  if  I  lie  down." 

"  That  should  prove  that  you  only  dream  these  things,  Olive. 
If  he  comes  now,  it  will  be  in  spirit  only." 

"  His  spirit !  Oh,  if  it  be  so,  I  do  not  fear !  The  spirit  of 
Harry  Berkeley  shall  be  more  welcome  to  Olive  Masterton  than 
any  living  man.  I  will  lie  down  in  your  bed,  mother :  I  do  not 
wish  to  see  the  cassique  again." 

"  But  he  is  your  husband,  my  child." 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  feel  that  I  am  the  wife  of  Harry  Berkeley 
only !" 

The  mother  led  her  off  to  a  couch,  and  gave  her  a  composing 
draught,  and  watched  her  while  she  seemed  to  sleep.  But  she 
had  only  shut  her  eyes  upon  the  daylight,  in  the  fond  hope  of 
recalling  the  vision  of  the  night. 


248  1HE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 


THE    WHITE    BIRD. 


"  Now  shall  we  see, 


That,  in  this  fair  simplicity,  there  lies 

Some  subtle  policy.     So  spiders  weave 

Their  silken  snares,  that  spread  about  unseen, 

Take  the  unwitting  victim  to  his  fate."  —  OLD  PLAY. 

SUCH  was  the  condition  of  things,  at  the  barony,  \vhei  Harry 
Calvert  made  his  night-ride  to  the  precinct,  in  company  with 
Gowdey.  It  was  the  night  of  the  day  when  the  cassique  had 
brought  her  offences  home  to  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Masterton ; 
when  Olive's  reproaches  —  faint  and  few  as  reproaches,  terrible 
thrusts  as  the  simple  utterances  of  a  wo-stricken  heart  —  had  smit 
ten  heavily,  though  almost  with  as  little  profit  as  her  lord's,  upon 
the  rocky  nature  of  the  world-wise  mother.  She  was  stunned, 
rather  than  subdued  or  convinced. 

Had  her  loving  purposes,  on  her  child's  behalf,  been  really  so 
mischievous  in  result  ?  How  should  she  think  so  ?  Surely,  but 
for  the  peculiar  perversity  of  that  child's  nature,  they  must  have 
been  productive  of  the  very  best  sort  of  human  happiness  —  accord 
ing  to  her  definition  of  the  word,  which  comprised  little  beyond 
ample  fortune,  and  a  fine  social  establishment  in  the  beau  monde. 

But,  leaving  her  to  work  out  the  worrying  problem  as  she  may 
—  leaving  her  lovely  victim  to  the  hallucinations  in  which  lay  at 
once  her  danger  and  her  delight  —  let  us  follow  the  steps  of  the 
cassique. 

His  policy  is  to  stifle  the  pangs  of  heart  in  the  employments 
of  his  head.  He  must  work  down  the  demon  of  Unrest  and 
Thought !  and  Will  must  subjugate  Sensibility.  With  the  dawn 
ho  had  gone  forth.  The  first  gleams  of  sunshine  found  him  busy 


THE    WHITE    BIRD.  249 

with  a  score  of  workmen  around  him,  and  his  own  hands  grasp 
ing  square  and  rule. 

He  was  thus  employed  when  almost  surprised  by  the  embas- 
sage  of  the  Indians,  whose  camp-fire  had  been  discovered  by 
Gowdey  the  night  before,  as  described  in  a  previous  chapter. 

An  embassage  of  the  red  men  is  no  ordinary  affair.  They  have 
a  great  sense  of  their  dignity.  The  cassique  knew  enough  of  the 
character  to  recognise  the  claims  of  its  vanity.  He  was  desirous 
of  conciliating  the  race.  He  had  philanthropic  purposes,  to  lift, 
and  ennoble,  and  civilize  it — if  he  could.  He  had  dedicated  no 
small  sums  of  money  to  this  purpose,  some  thought,  and  much 
patient  painstaking.  He  had  laid  in  stores  of  such  commodities 
as  the  red  men  most  desired.  These  were  to  be  used  as  presents. 
He  had  already  given  much :  he  was  prepared  to  give  more. 
But,  first,  he  must  receive  them  in  such  state  as  became  his  dig 
nity  and  their  own ;  the  latter  consideration  by  far  the  most  im 
portant,  and  necessarily  involving  due  regard  to  the  former. 

He  hurried  back  to  the  dwelling  the  moment  he  was  apprized, 
by  a  runner,  of  the  approach  of  the  cassique  —  the  Micco  Cusso- 
boe  —  the  great  chief  of  the  Kiawahs  —  and  hastily  put  on  the 
uniform  of  a  British  colonel.  Clothed  in  scarlet,  with  rich  facings, 
chapeau  bras  on  his  head,  and  long-sword  by  his  side,  he  too  was 
a  chief,  and  he  came  forth  properly  accoutred  for  the  reception  of 
his  brother-noble. 

But  we  have  no  intention  of  making  a  scene  of  it.  It  will  help 
us  nothing  in  our  narrative.  The  reader  must  fancy,  for  himself, 
the  reserved  airs  of  the  red  man  and  his  followers ;  the  lofty  car 
riage,  the  imposing  manner,  the  grand  speeches  —  which  Gowdey 
helped  to  translate — and  the  gifts  of  strouds,  blankets,  bells, 
beads,  knives,  and  hatchets,  with  which  the  white  cassique  of 
Kiawah  proceeded  to  gratify,  at  the  close  of  the  orations,  the  cu 
pidity  of  his  copper-colored  namesake  and  visiter.  The  belts  of 
wampum,  symbols  of  treaty,  amity,  and  commerce,  were  inter 
changed,  with  a  state  and  grace  becoming  higher  potentates. 

The  white  cassique,  with  proper  policy,  humored  the  red  one 
to  the  top  of  his  bent.  He  could  have  smiled  many  times  during 
the  proceedings,  but  his  heart  was  too  full  of  its  own  peculiar  cares. 

That  he  should  go  through  the  scene  at  all,  having  his  own 
agonies  to  endure  all  the  while,  was  no  small  proof  of  his  strength 

11* 


250  THE   CASSIQUE    OP    KIAWAH. 

of  soul,  and  the  brave  will  which  he  brought  to  bear  upon,  and 
crush  down,  the  keen,  sharp,  incessant  struggle  of  his  sensibilities. 

But  the  embassage  was  not  one  simply  of  courtesy.  It  con 
templated  a  special  business,  for  which  there  had  been  a  previous 
understanding  between  the  parties.  The  red  cassique  of  Kiawah 
came,  in  fact,  to  apprentice  his  only  son  to  his  European  name 
sake.  "  How  apprentice,"  you  ask,  "  and  to  what  occupation  ?" 
To  explain  this  will  require  but  few  words. 

It  is  perhaps  not  generally  known  that  the  custom  had  been 
for  some  time  adopted,  among  the  wealthy  settlers  of  the  white 
race  in  the  Carolinas,  of  hiring  experts  from  among  the  red  men, 
to  hunt  for  their  families  and  procure  their  game.  The  red  chief 
Cussoboe,  hearing  of  the  want  of  our  cassique,  had  voluntarily 
offered  his  son  for  this  purpose ;  and  the  boy,  only  sixteen  years 
old,  had  been  hurried  through  the  usual  Indian  novitiate  which 
prepares  for  the  toils  of  manhood,  in  order  to  meet  the  known 
wishes  of  Colonel  Berkeley. 

This  novitiate  of  the  red  man  ?     A  few  words  on  this  subject. 

In  the  complacency  of  our  civilization  we  rate  the  red  men 
somewhat  below  humanity.  At  all  events,  we  give  them  credit 
for  a  very  small  advance  beyond  the  condition  of  the  mere  bar 
barian.  And  yet,  setting  aside  the  bias  of  our  peculiar  conven 
tion,  we  are,  probably,  in  one  respect,  wanting  somewhat  in  the 
wisdom  of  the  red  man.  Our  discipline  of  the  young,  contempla 
ting  the  relative  duties  of  the  two  races,  is  scarcely  so  exacting, 
so  proper,  or  so  elevated,  as  theirs.  We  shall  make  no  compari 
sons,  lest  we  make  ourselves  odious :  and  we  admit,  in  limine, 
that  the  larger  complications  of  civilization  embarrass  the  subject 
of  discipline  in  a  degree  which  the  red  man  scarcely  feels ;  and 
civilization  contemplates  objects  which  do  not  enter  at  all  into 
his  calculations.  But,  regarding  only  what  are  his,  he  undoubt 
edly  has  a  better  idea  of  propriety,  and  the  mode  by  which  hi3 
ends  are  to  be  attained,  than  we  have  readied,  with  all  our  gains 
of  learning  and  science,  and  in  respect  to  the  variety  of  consider 
ations  which  press  upon  our  cares. 

The  red  man  has  two  great  studies  before  him.  He  is  to  be 
the  hunter  and  the  warrior.  His  life  is  thus  simplified,  as  nar 
rowed  down  to  these  occupations.  How  to  train  himself  and  son 
for  these  ?  Hardihood,  dexterity,  cunning,  fleetness  of  foot,  firm- 


THE   WHITE   BIRD.  251 

ness  to  endure,  inflexibility  in  trial,  a  steadfast  purpose,  a  strong 
heart,  a  cool  head,  deliberate  courage,  and  a  steady  aim  —  these 
are  the  objects  of  his  education,  training  him  equally  for  the  two 
employments  of  his  life.  He  is  schooled  even  more  severely  than 
was  the  Spartan.  His  pride,  from  childhood,  is  brought  into  play, 
and  made  to  stimulate  all  his  proper  faculties.  He  longs  to  emu 
late  the  great  hunter,  and  circumvent  the  bear,  and  trap  deer  and 
turkey,  and  transfix  the  flying  game  with  his  unerring  arrows ; 
and  so,  from  eight  to  fifteen  years,  the  naked  urchins  of  the  tribe 
are  engaged  in  every  exercise  which  can  increase  the  volume  and 
elasticity  of  muscle,  the  strength  of  legs  and  arms,  the  quickness 
and  farsightedness  of  eye,  the  subtlety  of  pursuit  and  snare,  the 
agility  of  movement,  the  rapidity  of  flight,  the  dexterity  of  aim 
and  action,  and  the  cool,  resolute  purpose  to  achieve  and  to  endure. 

At  fifteen,  just  when  the  moral  nature  begins  to  stir  with  dis 
content,  the  lessons  rise,  so  as  to  appeal  to  the  spiritual  and  im 
aginative  faculties.  At  fifteen,  there  is  a  new  ordeal,  when  the 
priesthood  interpose  and  take  up  the  training,  just  where  .the 
merely  physical  development  is  supposed  to  be  sufficiently  com 
pelled  by  habit. 

We  do  not,  of  course,  deem  it  necessary  to  dwell  upon  certain 
incidental  lessons  which  have  been  imparted  in  the  meantime. 
These  are  preparatory,  a  part  of  the  training,  though  they  may 
seem  to  have  been  delivered  without  any  apparent  conscious 
ness  that  the  boy  is  listening.  Wild  songs  are  sung,  of  ancient 
braves,  in  his  hearing ;  tales  are  told,  of  wondrous  deeds  of  daring 
and  endurance  in  the  past ;  and  traditions  are  transmitted,  of  such 
as,  from  extra  developments  of  character,  have  risen  to  the  rank 
of  demigods,  and  shine  in  the  mythology  of  the  red  men  as  brightly 
to  their  imaginations  as  ever  did  the  Thesean  and  other  mythic 
heroes  in  the  imagination  of  the  Greeks.  Of  course,  we  do  not 
propose  to  compare  the  two  races,  though  some  of  the  red  men 
might  well  challenge  the  comparison  with  Greek  or  Roman  fames. 
But  their  hero-deities,  having  no  poet,  have  no  record  —  none,  at 
least,  which  can  spell  our  senses  into  fond  allegiance.  We  will 
suppose  that,  from  eight  to  fifteen,  the  Indian  boy  has  eagerly 
listened  to  thousands  of  such  legends  of  myth  and  hero. 

At  fifteen,  all  his  early  training  of  the  physique,  and  its  tribu 
tary  faculties  of  sight,  and  smell,  and  taste,  and  touch,  and  hear- 


252  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

ing,  together  with  those  lessons  which  have  wrought  upon  his 
imagination  and  superstition,  are  appealed  to,  by  a  new  and  pecu 
liar  process,  which  is  training  also ;  and  the  boy  is  solemnly  dedi 
cated  to  the  Great  Spirit  and  yielded  to  his  hands,  and  made  to 
go  through  an  ordeal  which  brings  into  exercise  all  that  is  spir 
itual  in  his  nature. 

This  process  is  but  imperfectly  described,  in  our  language,  ai 
the  initiation  of  youth  for  manhood.  In  one  sense,  it  is  this.  It 
is  the  taking  on  of  the  toga  virilis.  It  is  the  assumption,  for  the 
first  time,  of  the  responsibilities  of  life.  But  it  is  something  more. 
It  is  a  sacrifice,  a  consecration,  an  invocation  —  a  religious  rite, 
the  higher  purpose  of  which  is  to  place  the  neophyte  within  tht 
immediate  care  of  the  Great  Spirit ;  to  commend  him  to  special 
favor  ;  and  to  procure,  if  possible,  such  a  visitation  from  the  Deitj 
as  will  prefigure  to  him  the  particular  role  which  he  shall  adopi 
in  the  vague  future  which  lies  before  him. 

He  is  expected  to  dream  dreams,  and  to  see  visions ;  each  of 
which  is  to  have  a  special  purport  to  his  mind.  In  the  Yemas- 
see,  and  the  kindred  dialects  of  the  Kiawahs,  Edistohs,  Cussoboes, 
Stonoes,  Sewees,  Ockettees,  Accabees,  and  other  tribes,  occupying 
or  ranging  through  the  same  precincts,  this  ordeal  was  called  the 
jBeni-as-ke-tau ;  among  the  Muscoghees,  it  was  A-boos-ke-tau  / 
and  the  several  Indian  nations  had,  each,  its  peculiar  name  for  a 
ceremonial  which  was  common  to  them  all. 

According  to  Gowdey,  and  no  doubt  many  others  of  the  whites 
who  knew  the  habits  and  character  of  the  red  man,  it  was  the 
formal  introduction  of  the  boy  to  the  Indian  devil ! 

But,  to  the  process  itself: — 

The  youth,  having  reached  the  proper  age,  say  fifteen,  and 
promising  to  be  worthy,  by  reason  of  the  progress  he  has  made  in 
the  sports  and  exercises  which  are  meant  to  harden  properly  his 
physique,  is  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  tribe,  and  conducted  to 
a  region  of  extremes!  solitude.  With  the  nations  of  the  interior, 
this  was  chosen  among  lonely  dells  in  the  mountains,  or  deep 
thickets  of  the  forest,  remote  from  the  travelled  routes.  Along 
the  seaboard,  according  to  the  season,  it  was  in  the  depths  of  the 
swamp,  or  on  some  desert  islet,  which  was  consecrated  to  this 
especial  purpose. 

Here,  after  various  exorcisms  of  the  Driest,  he  was  left  with  a 


THK    WHITE    BIRD.  253 

certain  meagre  allowance  of  food,  carefully  measured  for  a  limited 
space  of  time — varying,  according  to  the  different  usages  of  the 
tribes,  from  seven  to  twenty-seven  days.  The  food  left  him  -was 
just  in  sufficient  quantity  to  preserve  life.  He  was  left  weapon 
less.  He  had  nothing  but  coarse  meal  of  the  maize,  and  water 
was  always  convenient ;  he  might  drink  what  he  pleased  of  that. 
In  addition,  he  had  provided  him  certain  quantities,  duly  meas 
ured  out,  of  bitter  roots,  which  are  emetic  in  their  property. 
These  are  sodden  in  water,  and  he  drinks  of  the  water  at  morn 
ing  and  evening.  When  he  has  vomited  freely,  he  partakes  spar 
ingly  of  his  allowance  of  meal.  Having  thus  fed  and  physicked 
himself,  with  the  occasional  countenance  of  the  priest,  for  a  space 
of  five  days,  he  substitutes  for  the  emetic  roots  those  of  another 
sort,  which  have  the  effect  of  intoxicating :  in  fact,  from  the  de 
scription  given  of  their  properties,  we  may  suppose  them  to  resem 
ble  those  of  the  oriental  hacksheesh,  the  preparation  from  hemp. 
They  produce  delirium,  if  they  do  not  temporarily  madden. 

Then  the  visions  follow.  And  these  visions  have  a  divine 
import,  which  the  young  man  must  carefully  remember.  They 
embody  the  mystery,  and  the  moral,  and  perhaps  the  model,  of 
his  future  life.  They  present  to  his  mind  the  ideal  which  governs 
his  aims  and  aspirations  ;  and  from  these  he  detaches,  for  special 
worship,  the  chief  object  which  fastens  most  tenaciously  upon  his 
fancy. 

We  can  well  understand  how  and  why  it  is  that,  with  little  or 
no  food,  and  under  the  constant  appliance  of  medicine  which  ex 
hausts  the  system,  and  then,  with  an  imagination  wrought  to  in- 
tensest  activity  by  the  intoxicating  potion,  the  boy  should  see 
wondrous  things  in  his  visions,  and  that  these  should  exercise 
most  potent  influences  over  his  mind  in  all  succeeding  years.  The 
only  wonder  is,  that  he  should  escape  from  madness. 

And  you  may  trust  these  Indian  boys,  alone,  to  carry  out  faith 
fully  all  the  duties  prescribed  to  them.  They  know  the  object  of 
the  ordeal.  Their  ambition  has  been  raised  to  the  occasion.  They 
arc  eager  for  the  trial,  and  never  fail  in  its  requisitions.  They 
would  die  sooner  than  skulk.  In  the  meantime,  should  the  boy 
meet  another,  undergoing  the  same  novitiate,  he  neither  touches 
nor  speaks  with  him.  They  are  left  wholly  to  God :  they  will 
commune  with  no  meaner  being.  Ablutions  and  lustrations  fol- 


254  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

low,  and  a  copious  sweating  process  closes  the  ceremonial,  when 
the  priest  reappears,  and  performs  certain  mystic  rites,  and  the 
mockasons  of  manhood,  prepared  for  the  occasion,  "  esta-la-pee-ca," 
are  fastened  upon  his  feet,  and  he  is  armed  with  a  new  bow,  belt, 
and  arrows,  which  we  may  suppose  to  have  been  prepared  by  the 
young  women  of  the  family.  They  are  consecrated  by  the  priest, 
and  the  boy  usually  receives  a  new  name,  which  is  temporary, 
and  to  be  changed  with  his  first  remarkable  achievement  to  one 
which  is  significant  of  the  event. 

The  reader  will  suppose  us  to  have  abridged  this  description, 
cutting  off  many  minor  details.  We  have  given  the  main  features 
and  objects  of  the  ceremonial,  and  these  must  suffice. 

We  enable  him  to  understand  now  why  we  have  introduced  this 
description  here,  when  we  recall  to  his  memory  the  scene,  in  the 
first  part  of  this  veritable  history,  in  which  honest  Jack  Belcher 
detected  the  Indian  canoe  on  its  passage  to  the  sacred  isle  of 
Kiawah,  and  when  subsequently  the  alarm  was  given  to  the  same 
personage,  in  company  with  his  superior,  Calvert,  when  they  dis 
covered  the  same  Indian  canoe  so  nearly  athwart  the  hawser  of 
the  saucy  cruiser,  the  Happy-go-Lucky.  The  inmates  of  that 
canoe  were  the  chief  Cussoboe,  the  priest,  and  the  favorite  son, 
just  brought  back  from  Kiawah,  the  latter  having  gone  bravely 
through  his  ordeal  of  seven  days,  the  usual  term  of  the  novitiate 
among  the  Yemassee. 

"  How  came  he  —  the  Spirit?1'  was  the  first  query  of  the  cas- 
sique  to  the  nearly-exhausted  boy. 

"  An  he-gar ;  lac-o-me-ne-pah." 

"Ha!  the  little  white  bird?  Saw  yen  no  great  wings? — no 
eagle  ?  Was  there  no  wolf  that  howls  —  no  panther  that  springs  ? 
Heard  you  no  cry  as  of  the  bird  that  tears  the  throat  ?" 

The  boy  gasped  out  only  the  one  response  — 

"  An-he-gar ;  lac-o-me-ne-pah  !" 

"What  hast  thou  to  do  with  little  white  bird?  It  is  not  for 
hee.  I  would  have  had  thee  see  the  great  sea-eagle ;  better 
the  panther  that  leaps,  or  the  wolf  that  howls ;  or  the  great  bear, 
whose  embrace  is  death !  But  so  the  Great  Spirit  hath  spoken  ! 
And  who  shall  say,  *  Wherefore  this  speech  ?'  " 

This  was  all  said  in  the  dialect  of  his  people.  The  philosophy, 
as  spoken,  was  unexceptionable  ;  but  the  gloomy  brow  of  the  chief 


THE   WHITE   BIRD.  265 

was   scarcely  in    jnison  with  the    uttered    sentiment.     He  was 
troubled.     He  walked  away  dissatisfied. 

But  he  soon  returned,  and,  with  great  effort,  shaking  off  his  dis 
satisfaction,  he  proceeded  to  some  of  the  final  ceremonials,  such 
us  the  fastening  on  the  mockasons  and  belt,  and  arming  with  bow 
and  arrows.  And  then  the  whole  party  walked  away  together 
to  the  beach,  where  the  boat  awaited  them. 

And  even  as  they  walked,  there  lay  in  the  path  before  them  a 
long,  beautiful  white  feather,  as  if  just  fallen  from  some  snowy 
bird  in  flight.  And  the  boy  reverently  stooped  and  picked  it  up, 
and  fastened  it  within  the  fillet  that  encircled  his  brows.  And  he 
murmured  in  low  tones,  as  he  did  so  — 

"  An-he-gar ;  lac-o-me-ne-pah." 

The  father  heard  the  words,  and  again  he  frowned ;  for  it  did 
not  please  him  that  the  image  which  had  made  the  deepest  im 
pression  on  the  boy's  mind  should  be  so  insignificant  of  character 
But  the  lad  had  gone  bravely  through  his  ordeal ;  and,  though 
feeble,  he  carried  himself  erect ;  and  his  eye  was  bright,  and  his 
bearing  calm  and  resolute.  So  the  chief  made  no  reply  to  the 
words,  and  no  comment  upon  the  action.  In  fact,  whatever  the 
symbol  vouchsafed  the  boy  in  his  visions,  it  was  of  sacred  origin ; 
and  the  faith  of  the  red  man  rarely  questions  the  wisdom  in  the 
ultimate  designs  of  the  Deity,  though  it  may  be  that  it  conflicts 
with  his  own  pride  and  the  calculations  of  his  policy.  It  appeared 
to  do  so  in  the  present  instance,  and  Cussoboe  was  troubled.  He 
had  a  cunning  policy,  a  profound  purpose  in  view,  which  required 
that  the  boy  should  exercise  the  highest  attributes  of  manhood ; 
which  contemplated  for  his  future,  and  that  at  an  early  period, 
tests  which  would  tax  his  strength  to  the  utmost,  and  trials  which 
should  demand  his  best  courage. 

In  brief,  the  boy  was  dedicated  almost  as  solemnly  as  Hannibal ; 
and  long,  searching,  and  severe,  was  the  examination  by  which, 
subsequently,  the  sire  sought  to  probe  the  nature  of  the  son.  and 
raise  his  mind  to  the  height  of  those  duties  which  were  in  reserve 
for  his  future  execution. 

But  we  must  not  anticipate.  Ostensibly,  he  was  simply  ap 
prenticed  to  the  great  white  chief  as  a  hunter  of  the  deer  and  tur 
key.  The  terms  of  this  compact  were  all  understood  between 
the  parties,  prior  w  their  present  meeting.  It  only  remained  to 


25C  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  English  cassique  to  bestow  his  gratuities  upon  his  dusky 
brother.  This  was  done,  and  the  liberality  of  the  one  even  sur 
passed  the  expectations  of  the  other. 

But  Colonel  Berkeley  was  careful,  among  his  gifts,  to  bestow 
no  weapons  ;  and  this  was  a  disappointment  to  the  chief  Cussoboe. 
He  might  not  have  been  so  placid  under  this  disappointment,  but 
that  he  meditated  schemes  which  would  supply  hereafter  all  pres 
ent  deficiencies  of  this  description. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  and  while  Cussoboe  was 
eagerly  clutching  and  putting  aside  the  coveted  gifts  —  robes, 
shawls,  knives,  bells,  blankets,  and  a  score  of  "  what-nots"  besides 
—  that  a  bright,  fairy-like  creature,  an  English  girl,  fair  as  a 
new-budded  rose,  and  fresh  as  morning,  pressed  in  between  the 
spectators,  and  made  her  way  into  the  circle.  This  was  Grace 
Masterton,  the  sister  of  Olive,  the  wife  of  Berkeley,  a  tall  girl  of 
twelve  or  fourteen  years,  perhaps  ;  a  light,  graceful  creature,  whose 
eyes  sparkled  with  impulse  and  kindled  with  every  imagination. 
Scarcely  did  she  appear,  when  the  Indian  boy  murmured,  as  if 
unconsciously  — 

"  An-he-gar  !  —  lac-o-me-ne-pah  !" 

And  his  eyes  were  fastened  upon  her  face  with  a  long,  medi 
tative  gaze.  And  she,  too,  regarded  him  with  keenest  scrutiny 
for  a  few  moments,  when  the  English  cassique,  noticing  her  pres 
ence,  said  to  her : — 

*'  Grace,  my  dear,  this  is  the  young  Indian  hunter,  who  is  to 
bring  us  venison.  You  must  treat  him  kindly,  my  child.  He  is 
the  son  of  the  cassique." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,  brother,"  replied  the  girl,  promptly.  "  I 
like  his  looks.  He 's  handsome,  though  so  red.  He  shall  play 
with  me.  I  can  go  with  him  into  the  woods." 

"  You  shall  teach  him  English,  Grace,  when  he  's  off  the  hunt. 
Won't  you  like  that  better?  He  knows  nothing  of  our  language 
vet,  I  fancy.  Ask  him,  Gowdey,  if  he  understands  what  we  say." 

The  interpreter  translated  for  the  parties.  The  boy  replied  in 
his  own  tongue  : — 

"  I  hear  the  strange  bird  singing  in  the  woods  of  Kiawah.  'Tis 
the  white  bird  that  sings.  It  is  sweet  to  the  ears  of  the  young 
hunter,  but  he  knows  not  what  she  sings.  He  will  listen  closely, 
till  he  learns." 


THE   WHITE    BIRD.  257 

As  the  interpreter  rendered  this  speech,  the  gill,  with  the  ut 
most  frankness  and  simplicity,  as  if  the  answer  was  quite  sufficient 
for  friendship,  crossed  over  to  where  the  boy  stood,  his  eyes  bright 
and  watchful,  and,  suddenly  taking  one  of  his  hands  in  her  own, 
said : — 

"  I  like  what  you  say,  red  boy,  and  I  like  your  looks.  You 
shall  play  with  me,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  woods,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  the  English  and  England ;  and  I  will  teach  you 
how  to  speak  with  me,  so  that  we  may  understand  each  other. 
And  you  shall  hunt  for  me,  too,  and  shall  catch  and  bring  me  a 
beautiful  smart  young  fawn — a  young  deer,  you  know  :  you  must  n't 
shoot  it,  mind  you,  nor  hurt  it,  but  catch  it  in  a  snare,  and  just  bring 
it  to  me  so ;  and  I  will  put  a  collar  round  its  neck,  and  hang  my 
silver  bell  to  it,  and  it  shall  follow  me  about  wherever  I  go. 
Will  you  not  bring  me  the  beautiful  little  fawn,  red  boy  ?" 

"When  she  spoke,  the  boy  started,  as  if  from  a  dream.  But  he 
did  not  withdraw  his  hand  from  her  grasp,  and  he  looked  rever 
ently  in  her  eyes,  as  if  trying  to  comprehend  her  speech ;  but 
when  she  stopped  speaking,  he  could  only  murmur  as  before,  but 
now  looking  to  his  father  — 

"  An-he-gar ;  lac-o-me-ne-pah." 

"  He  calls  you  the  white  bird,  Miss  Grace,  the  little  white  bird 
that  sings.  Anhegar  is  the  Yemassee  for  little  white  bird." 

Such  was  the  translation  made  at  the  moment  by  Gowdey. 

"  Ugh !  ugh  !"  with  a  nodding  head,  was  the  commentary  of 
Cussoboe ;  but  he  looked  on  with  great  gravity,  apparently  not 
much  pleased  with  the  scene. 

"  And  what  is  the  name  of  your  son  ?"  asked  Berkeley. 

The  question  was  understood  by  the  chief,  but  he  was  not  so 
successful  in  conveying  his  reply,  though  he  attempted  one  in 
English.  Gowdey  came  to  his  assistance. 

"  The  chief  says,  your  honor,  that  the  boy  has  no  proper  name 
yet;  that  he  can  have  no  good  name  till  he  makes  one.  That's 
Injin  custom,  your  honor.  What  they  call  him  now  is  not  a  name 
to  last.  It 's  to  be  taken  off,  he  says,  but  not  till  he 's  made  a 
mark  for  himself;  that  is,  a  totem.  If  he  should  have  a  stiff  fight 
with  a  bear,  now,  and  take  his  hide,  they  'd  call  him  by  some 
name  that  means  '  The  boy  that  skinned  the  bear ;'  or  if  't  was 
war-time,  and  he  took  a  man's  scalp,  the  name  would  tell  all 


258  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

about  the  affair.  Now  they  call  him  ' IsivatteeJ  ami  I  don't  know 
well  what  that  means ;  but  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  it  is,  '  The 
tree  put  to  grow.'  For  short,  they  call  him  '  Iswattee ;'  and  J 
reckon  that 's  the  name  he  means  you  to  call  him." 

"Ugh!  ugh!  Iswattee  —  good  boy  Iswattee.  Shoot  dear,  kill 
bear;  good  boy  Iswattee.  Hunt  for  white  Micco.  Heap  kill — 
heap  catch !  Good  hunter  is  young  chief,  Iswattee." 

We  spare  the  reader  more  of  these  details.  The  ceremonials 
were  ended.  Cussoboe  had  made  up  his  piles ;  had  clutched  the 
hand  of  the  English  cassique  with  a  hearty  gripe,  seemingly  of 
good  will ;  then  suddenly  turned  away  for  the  forest,  leaving  his 
treasures  behind  him,  but  under  the  guardianship  of  his  followers. 
None  seemed  to  remark  his  going  except  the  boy  Iswattee.  He 
suddenly,  as  if  starting  from  deepest  revery,  took  the  track  afte* 
his  father,  and  followed  him  in  silence  to  the  adjoining  thickets, 
which  were  close  at  hand,  and  in  which  both  of  them  were  soon 
buried  out  of  sight. 


THE  QUIVER  OF  ARROWS.  259 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE    QUIVER    OF    ARROWS. 

"  Here,  boy,  is  the  commission  for  thy  work : 
So  many  days,  and  the  great  peril  demands 
Thy  instant,  swift,  decisive,  and  sharp  stroke  ! 
Be  true  as  vigilant ;  for  thy  duty  here 
Is  a  most  sacred  service  to  thy  people, 
And  the  Great  Spirit  that  watches  o'er  their  weal." 

THE  SEMINOLE  —  a  Play. 

YET,  though  buried  in  the  thicket,  the  chief  and  his  son  did  no$ 
pass  wholly  from  human  sight.  They  had  left  the  groups,  Euro 
pean  and  Indian  alike,  which  had  made  the  assemblage  gathered 
for  the  occasion.  But  other  eyes  than  these  were  upon  them. 

Harry  Calvert  harbored  in  the  very  thicket  to  which  they  di 
rected  their  steps.  From  the  edge  of  this  thicket,  approaching  as 
nearly  as  he  might  with  safety,  he  had  watched  the  whole  pro 
ceedings.  Now,  as  the  cassique  and  his  son  drew  nigh,  he  receded 
stealthily  into  yet  deeper  thickets,  taking  care  not  to  lose  them 
from  sight.  Not  that  he  felt  much,  or  any  curiosity,  with  regard 
to  their  movements.  In  observing  them,  he  simply  obeyed  those 
instincts  which  had  been  habitually  exercised  by  the  life  he  led, 
and  the  vigilance  which  its  necessities  had  rendered  natural  to  his 
mind.  He  had  been  a  warrior  and  hunter  himself  with  the  red 
men,  and  knew  much  of  their  ways.  It  was  only  the  habitual 
employment  of  his  wits,  in  the  absence  of  every  duty,  that  he 
should  fathom  their  purposes.  He  had  a  motive  in  this,  by-the- 
way,  in  consequence  of  what  Gowdey  had  reported  to  him  of  the 
doubtful  fidelity  of  the  red  men  in  the  precinct. 

Cussuboe  suspected  no  such  surveillance.  He  led  the  boy  into 
the  wood,  never  once  looking  behind  him,  and  not  doubting  that 


260  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH 

the  son  would  follow.  Having  reached  a  supposed  place  of  shel 
ter  and  security,  he  paused,  and  awaited  the  youth.  The  latter 
drew  nigh,  and  Calvert,  from  a  clump  of  bushes,  could  behold  the 
scene,  though  too  remote  to  gather  what  was  spoken.  He  saw 
that  the  cassique  spoke  with  solemnity ;  that  his  action  was  impo 
sing  and  dignified.  He  saw  his  hands  lifted  to  heaven  a£  one 
moment,  and  in  the  next  laid  on  the  young  man's  head. 

The  latter  stood  motionless  and  attentive.  The  father  then 
pointed  to  the  settlement  of  the  English  cassique  ;  and  finally,  un 
folding  his  robe,  he  produced  a  sheaf  of  arrows,  which  he  num 
bered  with  his  fingers.  From  this  sheaf  he  detached  a  single 
shaft,  snapped  it  in  twain,  and,  this  done,  he  looked  about  him 
until  he  found  a  living  tree  which  had  a  hollow  in  its  trunk.  Int 
this  hollow  he  thrust  the  sheaf  with  its  remaining  arrows,  an 
with  his  hatchet  made  a  single  stroke  across  the  bark,  on  the  side 
of  the  tree  opposite  the  cavity.  The  two  then  moved  away  to 
gether  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.  When  there,  they  separated  — 
the  boy  taking  his  way  to  the  settlement  of  his  new  employer,  the 
cassique  skirting  the  opening,  but  keeping  in  the  cover  of  the 
thicket,  until  he  had  joined  his  followers  a  few  hundred  yards 
below. 

They  had  loaded  themselves  with  his  merchandise,  the  gifts  ci 
the  white  man,  and  were  now  waiting  for  the  coming  of  their  su 
perior,  as  at  an  appointed  place.  In  a  short  time  they  had  disap 
peared  from  the  scene,  moving  away  as  calmly  and  indifferently 
as  if  they  had  not  left  behind  them  the  hope  of  the  tribe ;  as  if 
heedless  of  the  new  toils  to  be  forced  upon  him  —  his  isolation 
among  foreigners  —  the  tenderness  of  his  youth  —  the  temptations 
and  dangers  to  which  he  was  exposed  among  those  whom  his 
people,  whatever  the  appearances  they  maintained,  undoubtedly 
regarded  as  their  enemies. 

Harry  Calvert  had  been  able  to  behold  the  scene  already  de 
scribed  ;  and,  though  he  heard  not  a  syllable,  he  yet  fully  con 
ceived  its  purport.     He  waited  in  his  hiding-place  until  the  re 
men  were  certainly  gone,  and  at  a  distance,  when  he  readvanced 
to  the  edge  of  the  opening,  which  revealed  the  new  settlement, 
and  satisfied  himself  that  all  there  were  too  much  occupied  to  in 
terfere  with  his  own  actions.     He  returned  to  the  thicket,  found 
the  tree  in  which  the  sheaf  of  arrows  had  been  deposited,  and 


THE  QUIVER  OF  ARROWS.  261 

drew  it  forth.  He  found  it  tied  with  the  skin  of  the  rattle 
snake  ! 

Such  a  quiver,  so  encircled,  is,  when  formally  despatched  by 
one  tribe  to  another,  a  solemn  declaration  of  war.  And  even 
now,  though  unsent,  it  had  a  peculiar  significance,  which  Calvert 
well  understood.  He  counted  the  arrows,  and  restored  the  sheaf 
to  its  hiding-place.  Then,  gathering  up  the  fragments  of  the  shaft 
which  had  been  broken,  he  retired  still  deeper  into  the  thickets, 
till  he  reached  a  little  branch,  or  brooklet,  upon  the  banks  of 
which  the  canes  or  hollow  reeds,  of  which  the  arrows  were  made, 
grew  abundantly.  He  gathered  one  of  these,  as  nearly  like,  in 
size  and  appearance,  as  possible,  to  the  one  which  had  been  bro 
ken  ;  trimmed  it  with  his  knife  to  the  same  shape  and  measure, 
and  inserted  it  within  the  sheaf  with  the  rest,  This  done,  he  re 
sumed  his  scrutiny  of  the  plantation  and  settlements  of  his  brother. 

In  this  scrutiny,  he  consumed  the  better  part  of  the  day.  He 
noted  all  the  bearings  and  relations  of  the  several  buildings,  the 
courses  of  the  streams  and  woods  around  the  place,  and  made 
himself  familiar  with  the  various  paths  or  avenues  which  seemed 
to  lead  to  and  from  it.  For  hours  he  watched  the  buildings  from 
such  points  as  afforded  him  the  best  survey.  He  could  distinguish 
the  workmen  at  their  several  tasks,  and  his  brother  among  them. 
He  could  see  much  —  everything,  indeed,  which  would  have  been 
necessary  had  he  been  making  a  reconnaissance  in  contemplation 
of  assault. 

But  he  was  still  unsatisfied.  His  eyes  never  once  rested  on 
the  object  which  was  most  precious  to  his  sight — which  he  came 
especially  to  see ! 

But  there  was  one  sight  which  worked  keenly  upon  his  sensi 
bilities.  Toward  sunset,  he  beheld  the  nurse,  with  the  child,  enter 
the  great  grove  of  moss-bearded  oaks — a  Titan  family,  hoar  with 
fid.  and  with  branches  large  as  the  shafts  of  other  trees  —  which 
ranged  along  one  side  of  the  whole  settlement ;  a  natural  avenue 
such  as  no  prince  of  Europe  might  boast. 

He  could  not  doubt  that  this  infant  was  the  child  of  Olive.  "  It 
should  be  mine !  it  should  be  mine !"  was  the  half-choking  mur 
mur  from  his  lips.  His  first  impulse  was  to  dart  forward  and 
tear  the  infant  from  the  arms  of  its  bearer.  But  with  a  shudder 
he  arrested  himself,  turned  away  for  a  moment,  and  then  one  big 


262  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

tear  rose  into  his  eyes,  and,  glowly  gathering,  rolled  down  upon 
his  cheeks.  He  dashed  it  off  hurriedly,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  mo 
mentary  weakness ;  and  now  continued  to  watch  the  infant,  but 
with  a  sterner  feeling,  deeply  imbued  with  bitterness,  which,  how 
ever  brought  no  emotion  into  play  upon  his  face.  And  thus  he 
watched,  with  a  sort  of  stony  stare,  until  child  and  nurse  had  dia 
appeared. 

With  night  he  rode  back  to  Gowdey's  castle,  at  Oldtown  on 
the  Ashley.  Gowdey  was  in  waiting  for  him.  The  old  man  had 
shaken  off  his  red  companions  in  an  hour  after  the  embassage  was 
over.  Calvert  told  him  what  he  had  seen,  of  the  interview  be 
tween  the  chief  and  his  son.  He  told  him,  also,  what  he  had 
done,  in  substituting  a  perfect  for  the  broken  arrow. 

"  Ah !  captain,  I  see  you  knows  the  red  devils  as  well  as  my 
self.  You've  got  the  count  of  their  arrows,  I  hopes;  for,  jest  as 
sure  as  a  gun,  the  day  when  that  last  arrow  is  broken  is4;he  day 
for  sudden  mischief." 

"Yes;  here's  a  memorandum  in  pencil.  Score  it,  Gowdey,  in 
fire-coal  on  your  walls,  so  that  you  too  shall  remember.  We 
shall  have  to  make  our  preparations  against  that  day.  I  shall  be 
able  to  do  something.  That  this  chief,  Cussoboe,  means  mischief, 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  That  this  boy  is  to  be  made  an  agent, 
some  way,  in  effecting  some  special  and  important  object,  against 
a  particular  time,  is  equally  beyond  question.  Now,  what  is  he  to 
effect  ?  Have  you  thought  of  that,  Gowdey  ?" 

"Well  —  no!  I  don't  really  see.  He's  so  young  —  he's  not 
more  than  sixteen,  I  reckon ;  and  then  he's  a  sort  of  hostage,  you 
see." 

"  An  Indian  boy  at  fifteen  is  five  years  older  than  a  European 
boy  at  the  same  age." 

"  In  the  woods,  he  sartinly  is." 

"  And  his  life  is  in  the  woods  only.  What  we  call  civilization 
and  society  are  here  mere  impertinences.  The  manhood  of  the 
forests  is  the  best  manhood  in  the  forests,  and  this  boy  is  already 
trained  with  a  Spartan  education." 

"I  can't  say,  captain,  that  I  altogether  understand  that  '  Spar 
tan.'  " 

"  Ah !  true.  Well,  Gowdey,  the  Spartans  were  a  sort  of  In 
dians  in  their  day  who  trained  their  children  to  a  hard  life,  in 


THE   QUIVER   OP   ARROWS.  263 

order  that  they  might  be  strong,  selfish  men.  But  this  must  not 
divert  us  from  what  we  were  saying.  This  boy's  tender  years 
make  no  difference  in  this  matter.  He  will  do  what  his  father 
requires.  His  father  will  not  require  him  to  do  anything  which 
he  is  not  able  to  do,  provided  he  can  bravely  make  the  attempt, 
and  has  the  hardy  courage  to  pursue  it." 

"That's  true,  sir." 

"  Now,  Gowdey,  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  boy  is  in 
the  situation  of  a  hostage.  The  very  business  for  which  my  bro — 
the  cassique,  I  should  say  —  employs  him,  gives  him  perfect  lib 
erty.  He  ranges  the  woods  at  pleasure ;  is  absent  and  returns 
when  he  pleases  ;  and,  unless  locked  up,  can  execute  any  appointed 
mischief  that  lies  within  his  strength,  courage,  and  opportunities." 

"  That 's  sart'inly  true,  your  honor." 

"  Now,  the  question  occurs,  what  can  the  cassique,  his  father, 
expect  him  to  do,  which  he  could  not  do  himself?  Nothing,  un 
less  the  boy,  from  peculiar  opportunities  allowed  him  by  the  situ 
ation  he  holds,  can  obtain  access  to  objects  and  places  which  his 
father  could  have  no  pretence  to  seek." 

"  That  seems  quite  sensible,  captain." 

"  If,  then,  as  we  believe,  these  red  men  meditate  treachery,  the 
objects  with  which  this  boy  is  put  to  Colonel  Berkeley  will  be,  to 
gain  some  advantages  which  are  desirable  to  the  insurgents. 
What  are  these  objects  ?  The  boy  has  free  access  to  the  whole 
domain  of  Colonel  Berkeley.  He  may  be  able  to  open  the  gates 
and  doors  at  midnight ;  may  be  able  to  get  possession  of  arms  and 
gunpowder — " 

"Ah!  that  reminds  me  —  that  old  rogue  Cussoboe,  though  the 
cassique  gave  him  a  smart  chance  of  everything  that  he  wanted, 
he  was  not  satisfied,  and  he  asked  for  a  gun  for  himself,  one  for 
his  brother,  and  one  for  the  boy.  He  made  quite  an  argyment  to 
the  cassique,  after  them  guns  !  'T  was  lucky  the  colonel  fought 
shy  of  that,  though  he  did  n't  actually  refuse." 

"  There,  then,  lies  the  danger.  Now,  Gowdey,  in  my  exami 
nation  of  the  place  to-day,  I  note  that  there  is  a  strong  log-house 
without  windows.  It  struck  me,  as  you  had  already  told  me  that 
Colonel  Berkeley  had  a  large  supply  of  guns  and  ammunition, 
that  this  log-house  was  really  the  armory  and  magazine." 

"  I  know  it  is,  captain." 


264  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"  I  thought  so,  Gowdey.  But  now,  mark  you  :  this  log-house, 
or  armory  and  magazine,  is  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
from  any  of  the  other  houses." 

"  Yes,  and  he  told  me  the  reason  for  putting  it  so  far  off.  It 
was  the  danger  from  explosion." 

"  I  thought  that  likely.  But,  do  you  not  see  that,  as  there  is 
no  covered  way  from  the  dwellings  to  the  arsenal  and  magazine, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  get  to  it,  from  the  houses,  in  the  event 
of  a  sudden  assault  ?  The  red  men  have  only  to  cover  the  space 
between,  and  nobody  can  cross  to  get  the  weapons.  The  door, 
too,  of  this  log-house,  though  fastened  by  the  best  lock  ever  made 
in  Europe,  I  can  blow  open  with  a  pistol  —  I  can  pry  open  with 
an  axe !  It  only  needs  a  resolute  and  numerous  enemy,  and  the 
place  is  incapable  of  defence.  To  make  it  even  partially  secure, 
there  must  be  a  covered  way,  a  double  row  of  pickets,  from  the 
chief  dwelling  to  the  door  of  the  armory,  completely  enclosing 
that,  and  the  houses  must  all  be  fenced  in  with  pickets.  This> 
with  the  force  which  Colonel  Berkeley  can  now  muster,  can  all 
be  done  in  a  few  days.  He  must  do  it.  You  must  see  him,  Gow 
dey,  to-morrow,  and  urge  the  matter  upon  him." 

"  Lord  love  you,  captain  !  he'll  never  hear  to  me.  He's  got  a 
notion,  as  I  told  you  afore,  that  these  red  devils  are  real  humans, 
and  never  would  do  wrong  ef  they  worn't  pushed  to  the  wall. 
Now,  ef  you'd  see  and  talk  to  him — " 

"  Me !  You  forget,  Gowdey,  that  I  am  not  the  man  to  let  my 
self  be  seen  by  one  of  the  proprietors,  or  council,  just  at  this 
time." 

"  But  I  don't  reckon  he  knows  you." 

"  I  am  bound  to  take  for  granted  that  he  may  know  me,  and  to 
keep  out  of  his  sight,  for  a  time  at  least.  I  shall  see  —  nay,  seek 
him — when  the  time  comes,  and  it  is  proper  to  do  so.  I  may  say 
to  you  that  it  is  my  purpose  to  seek  him.  I  have  something  to 
say  to  him  which  concerns  us  both  very  nearly." 

«  Ah !— " 

"  Yes !  But,  in  the  meantime,  we  must  not  suffer  him  to  be 
murdered.  You  must  see  him,  and  warn  him  of  his  danger.  No 
body  can  do  it  better.  I  can  understand  that  it  will  be  difficult  to 
disabuse  him  of  these  notions  of  which  you  speak.  He  has  a 
hobby  of  philanthropy ;  and  hobbies,  unless  well  bridled,  invaria- 


THE    QUIVER   OF   ARROWS.  265 

bly  fling  their  riders.  We  must  make  him  put  a  strong  bit, 
though  for  a  season  only,  on  that  which  he  rides.  You  can  do 
this.  You  must  go  to  him,  and  warn  him  of  his  danger.  Tell 
him  that  you  know  there  is  an  insurrection  of  the  red  men  on  foot. 
You  do  know  it.  /know  it.  You  feel  sure,  from  what  you  know 
of  the  character  and  habits  of  this  people  —  from  what  you  your 
self  have  seen,  and  from  what  I  have  told  you  —  that  there  is  an 
insurrection  on  foot." 

"  I  could  swear  it  on  Holy  Writ." 

"  Swear  it  to  him,  then  !  But  beware  how  you  offer  to  argue 
with  him,  or  give  him  the  testimony  upon  which  you  ground  your 
convictions.  Pie  will  never  comprehend  your  proofs  or  mine. 
He  knows  too  little  of  the  red  men  to  understand  the  significance 
of  such  actions  as  satisfy  us  of  the  danger.  His  very  prejudices 
will  make  him  undervalue  your  arguments.  But  you  can  impress 
him  with  your  solemn  asseverations.  You  have  but  to  tell  him 
that  you  know  the  fact,  but  refuse  to  give  your  evidence.  You 
can  easily  find  an  excuse  for  being  silent." 

"  Yes,  I  can  do  that." 

"  Meanwhile,  I  will  warn  the  governor,  in  person.  You  must 
have  an  increase  of  force  for  your  garrison  —  half  a  dozen  stout 
fellows  at  least,  though  twenty  would  not  be  too  many.  Can  you 
not  pick  up  a  score  or  two  of  brave  fellow's  who  can  stand  fire  ?" 

"I  reckon,  captain,  if  I  had  the  money.  But  the  govern 
or—" 

"  You  shall  have  it !  We  must  not  wait  upon  governors  and 
councils :  they  move  too  slowly  for  this  case.  Before  they  could 
organize  a  corps  of  rangers,  there  would  be  a  hundred  scalps 
taken.  Pick  up  a  score  or  two  of  strong  fellows  within  the  next 
three  days.  Get  them  into  the  block-house  secretly.  It  is  of  the 
first  importance  that  your  enemy  should  never  know  where  you 
are,  or  how  strong  you  are.  The  red  men  probably  know  how 
weak  you  are  now.  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  will  have  some  of 
them  seeking  to  procure  admission  here,  on  some  innocent  pre 
tence,  just  to  find  out  the  weakness  of  the  place." 

"  They've  been  at  me  already,  hallooing  to  get  in." 

"  But  only  one  has  shown  himself  ?" 

"Only  one  —  that's  sart'in ;  but  I  guessed  as  how  there  was 
twenty  others  in  the  woods." 

19 


266  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

"Well,  do  you  get  a  score  of  stout  fellows.  I  will  provide 
others,  and  will  send  over  Jack  Belcher  to  you  to-morrow.  I 
want  him  here,  and  he  can  co-operate  with  you.  How  are  you 
off  for  weapons  ?" 

"  Enough  for  a  few  men  only." 

"  You  shall  have  enough  for  a  dozen  ;  and  what  your  governor 
fails  to  do,  I  shall  supply.  You  will  communicate  to  him,  how 
ever,  as  if  you  knew  nothing  of  me ;  and  let  him  give  you  orders 
for  the  men,  if  he  will.  That  will  guaranty  their  pay.  But. 
whether  he  gives  you  this  guaranty  or  not,  get  the  men,  and  I 
will  find  the  money  for  six  months'  pay.  Contract  for  that  time 
at  least.  That  will  carry  you  through  the  harvest.  In  all  proba 
bility,  Colonel  Berkeley  is  himself  the  cause  of  this  contemplated 
insurrection." 

"  As  how,  captain  ?" 

"  He  has  awakened  the  greed  and  appetite  of  the  red  men,  by 
the  ostentatious  exhibition  of  stores,  which  tempt  their  cupidity, 
which  they  esteem  beyond  all  things,  and  by  the  little  prudence 
with  which  he  guards  them.  He  has  numerous  cattle  which 
range  all  about  him.  He  will  awake  some  morning  to  find  all 
their  throats  cut,  even  before  his  own.  I  counted,  in  one  enclo 
sure,  not  less  than  twenty-six  of  the  finest  Irish  graziers — " 

'•  By-the-way,  captain,  the  very  best  sort  of  hogs  for  the  swamp- 
ranges  !  With  their  long  legs,  they  don't  mind  bog  or  distance; 
and  they're  sich  gross  feeders,  that  nothing  comes  amiss.  But, 
captain,  you're  a  most  wonderful  man.  You've  seen  to  eT'ery- 
thing." 

"  Ah,  Gowdey,  my  seeing  does  n't  take  the  mote  out  of  my  own 
eyes !" 

The  sudden  change  in  the  voice  of  the  speaker ;  the  deep  pa 
thos  conveyed  in  those  few  allegoric  words ;  the  utter  rejection, 
ip  tone,  manner,  and  thought,  of  that  tribute  to  the  vanity  of  the 
superior,  which  the  humble  man  probably  designed  —  and  inno 
cently  too  —  to  convey  in  his  complimentary  language  —  all  com 
bined  to  reveal  the  presence  of  a  great  grief,  perhaps  an  incurable 
one,  which  hitherto  Gowdey  had  never  supposed  to  exist  in  the 
heart  of  Calvert. 

"  Is  it  so,  then,  master  ?"  said  the  former ;  and  these  insignifi 
cant  words,  in  themselves  so  meaningless,  enforced  by  the  tremu- 


THE   QUIVER   OP   ARROWS.  267 

lous  accents  of  the  speaker,  conveyed  volumes  of  the  most  touch 
ing  sympathy. 

"  Master,  is  it  so  ?"  and,  repeating  the  sentence,  the  old  man 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  young  one,  and  the  big  tears  gathered  in 
his  eye. 

"  It  is  so,  Gowdey." 

"  Then  God  forgive  you,  and  give  you  peace,  master !" 

Master !  Plow  that  word  would  revolt,  at  this  day,  the  vanity 
of  inferiority  !  Yet  it  conveyed  then,  in  the  mouth  of  that  speak 
er,  no  degrading  acknowledgment.  It  was  simply  the  speech  of 
an  honest  affection,  paying  tribute  to  a  noble  superiority,  that  did 
not  suffer  forfeiture  of  a  perfect  manhood  in  the  indulgence  of  the 
greatest  of  human  griefs.  It  was  a  just  tribute  of  an  honest  heart 
to  a  genuine  heroism. 

"  It  is  so,  Gowdey  !" 

"  And  is  there  no  help  ?" 

"None !  none !" 

"  O  captain,  have  faith!  Look  up!  that's  all  that's  needful. 
And  you  may  even  shut  the  eye  when  you're  a-lookin'  up.  The 
faith  is  apt  to  see  better  when  the  eye  is  shut.  It's  the  faith  that 
cures  the  hurt,  and  gives  sight  to  the  blind  man  !" 

"  Enough,  Gowdey  !  Let  us  sleep  now.  You  must  take  me 
across  the  river  before  the  dawn." 


268  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

THE    DESPATCH. 

"  Hard  rides  the  messenger  of  Law,  but  Fate 
Rashes,  with  keener  spur,  the  steed's  sleek  sides 
That  hurries  in  pursuit."  —  Old  Play. 

BY  the  dawn  of  the  next  day,  Calvert  was  safely  sheltered 
within  the  close  chamber  in  the  dwelling  of  Governor  Quarry. 
It  was  too  late  that  night  to  disturb  the  household  of  Mrs.  Per 
kins  Anderson,  and  agitate  the  repose  of  a  wife  so  little  nervous 
as  the  fair  Zulieme.  It  was  enough  to  find  a  welcome  from  the 
accommodating  Governor  Quarry,  to  whom,  without  committing 
himself  in  any  way,  or  revealing  his  own  personal  purposes  and 
objects,  Calvert  made  known  all  his  apprehensions  of  the  hostile 
intentions  of  the  red  men. 

"  Really,  my  dear  captain,"  said  the  governor,  "you  are  grow 
ing  nervous.  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  Indians  have  any  good 
feeling  toward  us  —  far  from  it;  but  I  have  myself  had  no  evi 
dence  which  might  confirm  your  statement.  So  far  as  I  can  hear, 
they  are  uniformly  pacific ;  have  been  quietly  getting  their  maize 
and  peas  into  the  ground ;  and  working  as  usual  (precious  small 
is  the  degree  of  work,  I  grant  you)  upon  their  little  planting-tracts. 
Upon  what  do  you  found  your  opinions  ?" 

"I  have  <nven  you  no  opinions,  Governor  Quarry.  I  assert 
positively  that  the  red  men  are  preparing  for  mischief.  I  state  a 
fact  which  I  will  not  argue." 

"But  your  facts  must  be  founded  upon  something;  you  hare 
evidence  for  this  assertion  ?" 

"  Surely,  but  it  is  of  a  sort  which  I  am  not  prepared  to  impart. 
The  revelation  of  my  facts  involves  other  interests." 

"But,  unless   T   have  some   evidence  —  alleged   proofs  of  the 


THE   DESPATCH.  269 

facts,  at  least —  upon  which  I  can  found  the  apprehension,  how 
should  I  alarm  the  council  ?  how  move  them  to  agree  upon  the 
organization  of  the  rangers?  Rangers  are  expensive  luxuries, 
captain,  and  the  colony  is  a  poor  one." 

"  Can  you  exercise  no  discretion  as  governor?  —  since,  if  you 
are  to  wait  upon  the  dilatory  debates  of  a  council,  you  are  Lkely 
to  send  your  rangers  out  only  to  gather  up  the  scalped  heads  of 
your  colonists." 

"  Are  you  really  serious  ?"  asked  the  governor,  now  becoming 
serious  himself. 

"  Never  more  so  in  my  life !" 

"  But,  do  tell  me  upon  what  you  ground  these  suspicions  ?" 

"  That  I  can  not  well  do.  If  your  council  be  as  ignorant  of  the 
nature  of  the  red  men  as  Europeans  generally  are,  what  I  hold  to 
be  conclusive  proofs  would  be  to  them  wholly  insignificant.  If  you 
yourself  can  not  act  in  the  matter,  I  should  despair  of  your  coun 
cil  doing  anything  in  season.  If  your  scattered  colonists  up  the 
two  rivers,  especially  here  to  the  south  as  far  as  the  Savannah, 
could  only  be  advised  by  runners  to  be  on  the  alert ;  your  frontier 
block-houses  strengthened  against  surprise ;  patrols  of  good  skill 
in  woodcraft  sent  out,  especially  in  Berkeley  and  Colleton  coun 
ties  ;  and  all  done  without  beat  of  drum,  and  with  the  utmost 
secrecy  —  then  you  might  hope  to  avert  the  danger,  or  meet  it 
successfully.  But  what  is  done  should  be  done  quickly.  I  doubt 
if  you  will  have  more  than  three  weeks  for  the  work.  Why 
should  you  not  assume  the  responsibility,  keeping  all  the  measures 
secret  for  a  while  ?  It  would  redound  wonderfully  to  your  credit 
after  the  event." 

"  But  most  atrociously  against  my  credit  if  the  event  should 
never  take  place.  It  would  fasten  a  debt  upon  the  colony  which 
the  council  would  never  sanction.  No,  no,  captain ;  unless  you 
give  me  what  the  scouts  call  '  Indian  sign,'  and  enough  of  it,  I  can 
take  no  steps  such  as  you  propose." 

"  Who  keeps  the  block-house  at  Oldtown  ?  Have  you  a  garri 
son  there?" 

"  A  single  man  only  —  an  old  sea-dog,  trapper,  hunter,  all  sorts 
of  a  scout  —  named  Gowdey." 

"  Does  he  report  nothing  ?" 

"Nothing.     I  have  hardly  seen  him  for  a  month.     He  has 


270  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

been  to  me  twice  or  thrice  during  the  last  six  weeks,  but  I  left 
him  to  my  secretary.  I  was  quite  too  busy  myself  to  see  him ; 
and  the  old  trapper  carries  with  him  usually  such  a  strong  odor, 
such  an  '  ancient  and  fishlike  smell,'  that  my  nostrils  resent  his 
presence  as  they  would  the  precincts  of  a  pest-house.  My  olfac- 
iories  keep  him  from  my  auditories." 

"  You  may  be  too  nice  for  safety,"  answered  Calvert,  gravely 
**  Take  my  counsel,  and  see  him,  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say ; 
at  least,  seek  all  the  information  that  you  can  from  your  scouting- 
parties  ;  and  bring  your  council  to  frequent  and  early  meetings  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  on  any  pretext.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
I  may  be  able  to  put  such  evidence  before  you  as  may  even  suf 
fice  for  their  enlightenment." 

"  My  dear  rover,  the  council  are  more  likely  to  fancy  danger 
from  a  very  different  class  of  people  than  the  red  men.  Do  you 
know  that  they  have  a  most  pernicious  habit  of  treating  of  priva 
teering  as  if  it  were  piracy  !  It  is  because  of  this  lamentable  per 
versity  of  opinion  that  I  have  not  sought  them,  or  cared  to  see 
them,  since  you  have  been  in  the  precinct.  They  scarcely  speak 
of  anything  else ;  and  it  has  been  to  me  matter  of  real  rejoicing 
that  Berkeley  and  Morton  are  busy  with  their  several  baronies, 
and  that  Middleton  has  gone  pioneering  somewhere  about  the 
San  tee,  so  that  I  am  temporarily  relieved  of  their  discussions  as 
to  the  proper  mode  of  treating  a  certain  notorious  offender,  whom 
they  familiarly  style  '  the  pirate  Calvert.' " 

"  Take  no  heed  of  me,  I  pray  you.  I  can  put  myself  in  safety 
at  any  moment." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ?  By  my  soul,  but  I  am  not !  I 
must  take  heed  of  you.  Read  that,  and  you  will  see  that  your 
former  agent,  Master  Job  Sylvester,  or  Stillwater  —  still  water, 
you  know,  has  a  proverbial  depth,  if  not  darkness  —  is  disposed 
to  look  after  you,  since  you  will  not  look  after  him.  He  has  not 
only  grown  virtuous,  but  patriotically  suspicious.  He  is  busily  so ; 
and  assures  me  that  he  has  good  reasons  for  believing  you  to  be 
even  now  in  town." 

"Indeed!"  —  and  Calvert  read  the  letter,  only  to  lay  it  down 
quietly. 

"  What !  you  despise  its  dangers  ?  You  treat  with  contempt 
the  virtuous  citizen  who  tells  me  that,  '  having  seen  the  errors  of 


THE   DESPATCH.  271 

iiis  ways,'  he  is  prepared  '  to  make  amends  for  his  past  errors,'  by 
bringing  to  the  gallows  his  old  associates  !  Do  you  not  see  that 
he  tells  us  in  one  sentence  that  he  is  moved  by  the  fear  of  God 
and  the  love  of  the  law  —  or  is  it  the  love  of  God  and  the  fear  of 
the  law?  —  perhaps.  But  you  see  where  he  somewhat  modestly 
asks  if  there  be  not  some  five  hundred  pounds  offered  for  the  cap 
ture  of  '  this  most  nefarious  sea-robber,  Harry  Calvert  ?'  Oh  !  a 
most  precious  rogue  is  Master  Job  Stillwater,  but  not  the  less  a 
good,  virtuous  citizen  for  all  that.  He  is  true  to  his  eastern  edu 
cation,  which  accommodates  itself  to  God  whenever  the  transac 
tion  is  profitable ;  and  to  the  law,  after  he  has  made  it  sufficiently 
malleable.  I  confess  to  you,  I  somehow  fear  this  virtuous  fel 
low.  He  has  latterly  grown  so  good  as  not  to  be  quite  willing 
that  anybody  should  live  by  vice  but  himself.  All  such  animals 
have  a  rare  instinct  in  finding  where  other  foxes  take  cover.  Be 
ware  of  him." 

"  I  shall !" 

"  But  how  have  you  offended  him  ?" 

"  By  withdrawing  all  trust  from  him.  I  sent  Belcher  to  sound 
him  and  others  some  time  ago.  You  may  remember  the  time,  for 
he  had  a  communication  for  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  warned  him  of  your  danger  here." 

"  Precisely.  So  did  Franks.  But  the  counsel  of  Sylvester 
•was  bold  and  encouraging.  He  was  particularly  careful  to  give 
a  bad  account  of  your  excellency's  courage  and  of  Franks's  hon 
esty.  And  Belcher  found  out  that,  withal,  he  had  grown  pious. 
I  so  far  resolved  to  respect  his  piety  as  to  subject  him  to  no  more 
temptations.  Accordingly,  he  was  suffered  to  know  nothing  of 
my  coming  or  presence." 

"  Ay,  but  he  knows  something  now ;  at  all  events,  he  suspects. 
He  is  invited  to  confer  with  me  in  person,  and  to  report  the  evi 
dence  upon  which  his  suspicions  are  based.  I  must,  of  course, 
give  him  every  encouragement;  but  shall  not  object,  my  dear 
captain,  if,  in  your  own  chamber,  your  ears  should  happen  to  be 
keen  enough  to  obtain  any  useful  knowledge  for  yourself." 

Three  hours  later,  this  promise  was  realized.  Sylvester  —  or 
as  the  governor  persisted  in  calling  him,  Stillwater — was  punc 
tual  to  his  appointment,  and  Calvert  was  an  unsuspected  wit- 
ness. 


272  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Stillwater  was  a  person  of  many  preliminaries,  and  somewhat 
circuitous  in  his  progress  to  an  end.  We  shall  abridge  these  to 
our  limits,  confining  him  and  ourselves  as  strictly  as  possible  to 
what  is  absolutely  necessary  to  our  narrative.  He  was  careful  to 
confess  his  previous  connection  with  the  pirate,  but  that  was  only 
while  piracy  was  an  innocent  practice.  The  moment  that  God 
and  his  majesty  Charles  II.  had  discovered  its  heinousness,  from 
that  moment  Stillwater  felt  a  change  of  heart.  But  he  felt  that  it 
was  not  enough  for  him  to  shake  the  sin  from  his  own  skirts ;  it 
was  incumbent  upon  him  to  pursue  to  justice  those  who  continued 
to  indulge  in  the  crime:  and  when  he  learned  that  there  was  a 
proclamation  of  his  majesty  which  rated  the  offence  so  high  as  to 
offer  five  hundred  pounds  for  the  capture  of  the  chief  offender  in 
these  parts,  he,  with  becoming  virtue  and  loyalty,  resolved  to 
merit  his  majesty's  approval  and  reward.  Accordingly,  when 
Jack  Belcher,  the  emissary  of  the  infamous  pirate  Calvert,  came 
to  him  some  months  ago,  as  had  been  his  wont  on  previous  occa 
sions,  to  make  arrangements  for  the  sale  in  Charleston  of  the 
plunder  which  the  pirate  had  made,  he,  Job  Sylvester,  with  the 
cunning  of  the  serpent  and  the  innocence  of  the  dove,  gave  him 
every  encouragement  to  come,  and  bring  his  wares  to  the  custom 
ary  market.  And  he,  Sylvester,  had  laid  his  virtuous  snares  so 
happily,  that  he  felt  cock-sure  of  making  the  pirate  a  captive,  and 
getting  possession  of  the  piratical  vessel  and  all  her  crew  and 
cargo. 

"  But  you  never  told  me  of  this,  Master  Job  !"  quoth  the  gov 
ernor.  The  pious  rogue  had  his  answer : — 

"  The  moment  hadn't  come  for  it,  your  honor.  I  waited  for  the 
time.  The  time  has  come  at  last ;  and  you  see  me  here,  ready  to 
finish  the  good  work." 

"  Ah !  you  can  lay  hands,  then,  on  this  pirate  and  his  vessel 
now  ?  He  and  she  are  here,  do  you  say?" 

"  I  've  got  such  evidence,  your  honor,  as  makes  me  certain. 
The  town 's  full  of  new  goods,  which  never  came  from  England. 
Franks  is  working  in  secret  day  and  night.  There's  Spanish  fruit 
fresh  in  the  market,  and  we've  had  no  direct  arrivals  from  Ha 
vana  or  the  West  Indies  for  more  than  a  month.  Then,  strange 
sailors  have  been  seen  about  town  at  night ;  and,  what 's  more, 
there's  a  strange  woman  staying  at  the  house  of  Madam  Perkins 


THE   DESPATCH.  •        273 

Anderson,  a  Spanish  woman  —  you've  heard  of  her,  for  she's  a 
famous  figure  to  see ;  they  call  her  the  Senorita  de  Montana,  and 
all  the  young  bucks  are  after  her.  But  I  'm  pretty  sure  she 's  no 
other  than  the  mistress  of  this  pirate  Calvert." 

"  Ha  !  what  makes  you  sure  of  it  ?" 

"  I  heard  something  about  this  woman  before.  He  calls  her 
his  wife.  I  got  it  from  one  of  the  sailors,  long  ago,  that  he 's  mar 
ried  to  a  Spaniard." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  really  his  wife,  if  connected  with  him  at  all. 
Why  should  you  suppose  her  his  mistress  ?" 

"  Oh,  your  honor,  it 's  not  charity  to  think  that  these  pirate- 
captains  ever  call  in  the  church  when  they  splice.  They  have  n't 
the  virtue  for  that.  They  're  loose  livers,  and  have  a  wife  —  of 
that  sort  —  in  all  the  ports  where  they  trade.  But  I  got  a  hint 
of  the  whole  story  more  than  a  year  ago,  from  one  of  the  sailors 
—  he  was  a  Spaniard  himself,  and  knew  all  about  it  —  who  worked 
aboard  the  Happy-go-Lucky.  The  woman  's  his  mistress,  be  sure, 
and  she 's  here,  and  he,  I  reckon,  is  not  far  off.  And  the  ship 's 
somewhere  about ;  though,  this  time,  they  have  n't  run  her  into 
the  place  where  they  always  took  her  before.  But  the  goods  that 
fill  the  market,  the  fruit  about  town,  the  strange  sailors  that  are 
seen  here  by  night,  and  this  Spanish  senorita  —  how  should  they 
get  here,  when  there 's  been  no  arrivals  from  Havana  and  the 
West  Indies?  They  come  in  the  Happy-go-Lucky,  sir;  and  I'll 
have  'em  all  in  a  bag,  if  so  be  your  honor  will  give  me  the  need 
ful  help  when  the  time  comes." 

"  And  what  do  you  need,  Master  Job,  for  this  patriotic  ser 
vice?" 

"  Well,  your  honor,  I  want  a  despatch  express  to  New  York,  to 
bring  on  the  Southampton  frigate,  and  the  Scarborough,  or  any 
other  of  the  king's  ships  that  are  on  that  station ;  and,  until  that 's 
done,  I  do  n't  want  to  make  any  stir,  unless  we  can  be  so  fortunate 
as  to  bag  the  captain,  when  he 's  off  the  vessel  and  skulking  some 
where  about  town.  Once  we  can  get  his  head  into  sack,  we  can 
find  out  all  about  the  vessel." 

"  A  most  notable  idea.  You  are  decidedly  right.  You  are  an 
old  trapper,  Master  Stillwater,  and  the  despatches  shall  be  ready 
for  you  when  you  please." 

12* 


274  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Right  away  !     Now 's  the  time,  your  honor." 

"  This  very  day,  if  you  think  proper  !  Can  you  procure  me  a 
good  express  —  a  safe,  hard-spurring  fellow  ?" 

"  1  Ve  just  got  such  a  man,  your  honor :  Gideon  Fairchild  — • 
a  good  man  —  a  brand,  like  myself,  plucked  from  the  burning,  and 
now  a  shining  light  in  the  meeting-house !" 

"  You  know  him  thoroughly,  Master  Job  ?" 

"  Like  the  A,  B,  C  !  We  learned  our  letters  together  in  Con 
necticut.  He 's  had  his  falls,  your  honor.  He 's  been  a  sinner, 
even  as  I  have  been  a  sinner.  But  the  Lord  has  been  pleased  to 
send  his  holy  grace  to  both  of  our  wretched  souls,  and  we  are  re 
deemed  by  his  mercy.  Gideon  Fairchild  won't  let  the  grass 
grow  to  his  horse's  feet ;  and  he 's  been  the  route  many  times 
before,  when  he  went  on  no  such  virtuous  business." 

"  Let  him  be  ready  by  three  o'clock.  The  despatches  shall  be 
prepared  for  him  to  the  governor  of  New  York.  Is  there  any 
thing  more  that  should  be  done  now  ?" 

"Not — just  —  yet.  your  honor!  Might  I  ask  your  honor 
if  the  reward  says  *  dead  or  alive,'  in  the  case  of  this  pirate- 
captain  ?" 

u  Alive !  alive !  We  want  him  for  an  example,  Master  Still- 
water.  Remember  that !" 

"  It  might  be  much  easier  to  kill  him  than  to  take  him,"  said 
the  pious  convert.  "  He  's  quick  to  fight,  and  mighty  heavy- 
handed." 

"  Oh,  do  n't  be  so  bloody  in  your  piety  !  at  least,  do  n't  defraud 
the  gallows  of  its  prey." 

u  And  —  your  honor  —  wha-t  's  the  reward  for  the  capture  of  the 
pirate-ship  ?" 

"  Salvage  on  the  cargo,  Master  Job,  is,  I  take  it,  the  law  on 
that  subject.  For  the  rest,  leave  it  to  the  generous  bounty  of  his 
majesty's  counsellors,  to  determine  the  proper  reward  for  those 
who  shall  render  him  so  great  a  service  as  the  capture  of  this  for 
midable  pirate.0 

"  And  there  will  be  salvage,  your  honor,  on  the  ship,  as  well 
as  the  cargo  ?" 

"  Why,  Master  Job,  your  loyalty  takes  a  very  voracious  aspect ! 
But,  even  here,  you  will  not  be  disappointed.  You  will  have 
your  reward.  But  such  a  vessel,  with  such  heels  as  the  Happy- 


THE   DESPATCH.  275 

go-Lucky,  is  more  than  likely  to  take  her  place,  once  in  our  pos 
session,  among  his  majesty's  own  cruisers." 

"  And  she  '11  do  credit  to  the  service,  your  honor.  She  'a  got 
the  heels  of  them  all.  I  'm  humbly  thankful,  your  honor.  Gid 
eon  Fairchild  will  be  in  readiness,  punctual,  at  three  o'clock. 
It  is  a  long  ride,  but  Gideon  will  find  a  spur  in  his  loyalty 
and  conscience,  your  honor;  and  I  can  answer  for  it  that  no 
despatch  ever  sent  before,  ever  reached  so  soon  as  that  he 
carries." 

"  If  it  ever  reaches  !"  was  the  unuttered  thought  of  his  amiable 
excellency,  who  had  his  own  reasons  for  doubting  the  success  of 
Gideon's  mission. 

"  Well,"  said  h  3  to  Calvert,  when  Sylvester  was  gone,  "  you  see 
where  you  are.  What  will  you  do  ?" 

"  Can  your  excellency  have  a  short  missive  conveyed  from  me 
to  Franks  within  the  next  half-hour  ?" 

"  To  be  sure.  Of  course,  it  is  your  own  private  affair,  and  un 
der  seal." 

"  Surely.  Even  the  messenger  need  n't  know  you  are  in  the 
business." 

And  Calvert  scrawled  a  few  lines  in  a  billet,  which  he  sealed 
and  put  into  the  governor's  hands. 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Calvert,  rising,  "  that  Jack  Belcher  is 
somewhere  waiting.  I  fancy  I  heard  his  whistle  from  yonder 
orange-shrubbery.  If  your  excellency  will  suffer  me,  I  will  an 
swer." 

The  governor  nodded ;  and  Calvert,  applying  a  silver  whistle 
to  his  mouth,  sounded  three  mots,  and  then  a  fourth,  after  a  pause. 
The  governor  walked  out  of  the  chamber  to  the  lower  story  and 
the  back-door  of  the  house,  taking  the  billet  with  him.  He  re 
turned  without  it. 

The  despatches  were  ready  at  three  o'clock.  The  governor 
read  them  to  Master  Job  Sylvester.  They  were  very  emphatic, 
and  particularly  urgent.  Nothing  could  be  more  emphatic,  or 
more  satisfactory  to  our  patriotic  citizen  ,•  and,  at  half-past  three, 
Gideon  was  on  the  road  ! 

At  half-past  six,  he  was  knocked  from  his  horse  by  sundry  un 
civil  persons,  who  took  from  him  money  and  despatches.  He 
•was  fastened  again  upon  the  horse,  his  legs  tied  together  beneath 


276  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

the  belly  of  the  animal,  his   hands  behind  him,  and  his  mouth 
muzzled ! 

It  was  midnight  before  he  was  suffered  to  alight :  then,  lifted 
tenderly  enough  from  the  beast,  he  found  himself  hoisted,  with 
equal  tenderness,  into  a  boat,  and  transferred  to  the  deck  of  the 
Happy-go-Lucky,  in  the  hold  of  which  we  must  keep  him  for  a 
season,  cooling  his  heels  and  temper  together,  in  a  somewhat 
uncomfortable  position. 


THE    DESOLATE    HEART.  277 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE    DESOLATE    HEART. 

"  The  strong  man  weeps,  from  sympathy,  not  fear : 
He  knows  and  braves  the  fate  that  yet  must  crush !" 

Old  Play. 

BUT  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  dangers  of  the  Happy-go- 
Lucky,  and  her  valiant  captain,  were  set  at  rest  by  this  prompt 
practice.  True,  Gideon  Fairchild  was  laid  by  the  heels,  and  kept 
on  short  commons,  in  the  hold  of  the  saucy  cruiser ;  and  his  brother 
in  grace,  the  goodly  Job  Sylvester,  wist  not,  all  the  while,  but 
that  he  was  fast  making  his  way  to  the  king's  cruisers  at  New  York. 

But  Job  was  not  the  less  active  because  he  had  set  certain 
wheels  in  motion.  He  was  one  of  a  tribe  which  habitually  keeps 
all  its  wheels  in  motion.  He  was  not  the  person  to  fancy  any 
thing  done,  while  anything  which  he  could  do  remained  undone ; 
and  the  king's  reward  of  five  hundred  pounds  exercised  such  a 
potent  effect  upon  his  pious  fancy  as  to  keep  him  sleepless  in 
fruitful  meditation  upon  the  plans  which  should  render  it  of  easy 
and  safe  acquisition.  He  gave  the  world  credit,  now  that  his  cu 
pidity  was  aroused,  for  a  vigilance,  cunning,  and  energy,  like  his 
awn ;  and  perpetually  trembled  lest  some  person  just  as  'cute 
and  clever  as  himself,  probably  with  better  luck,  should  interpose, 
at  a  drowsy  moment,  and  rob  him  of  his  prey. 

No  sooner  had  he  got  the  despatches  from  the  governor,  and 
started  Gideon  on  his  route,  than  he  began  to  reflect  upon  the 
readiness  with  which  the  former  had  yielded  to  his  wishes.  He 
suspected  the  governor — it  may  be  as  well  said  here  as  elsewhere 
• — and  began  to  feel  some  doubts  of  his  good  faith,  when  he  re 
called  the  facility  with  which  he  had  obtained  his  object.  He 
had  expected  his  excellency  to  evade  his  application  —  to  make 


27 P  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

light  of  his  arguments,  and  to  put  him  off  for  a  season ;  and  had 
already  made  his  calculations  that  he  should  have  finally  to  appeal 
to  some  of  the  members  of  the  council  whom  he  knew  to  be  much 
more  honest  in  their  desires  to  carry  out  the  ostensible  objects  of 
the  king's  proclamation. 

That  Governor  Quarry  should  have  foreborne  the  formal  pub 
lication  of  the  government  missives  against  piracy  —  should  have 
given  no  circulation  to  the  fact  that  a  heavy  reward  had  been 
offered  for  Calvert  —  was,  of  itself,  sufficiently  suspicious  ;  and  Job 
was  not  the  man  to  be  put  at  fault  by  any  such  pretexts  as  those 
which  had  quieted  Sir  Edward  Berkeley.  Of  course,  his  suspi 
cions  were  rendered  lively  by  a  degree  of  knowledge  which  he 
possessed,  through  former  associations,  in  respect  to  Quarry's  flexi 
bility  of  conscience,  of  which  Berkeley  and  the  rest  of  the  council 
were  either  wholly  or  mostly  ignorant. 

He  was  morally  sure  of  Quarry's  corrupt  practice,  and  shrewdly 
suspected  that  no  small  share  of  the  piratical  profits  had  gone  into 
the  pockets  of  the  government  official.  With  this  knowledge, 
and  these  suspicions,  he  was  not  satisfied  to  rely  upon  the  gov 
ernor's  good  faith,  even  now,  when  the  promptness  of  the  latter, 
in  complying  with  his  application,  might  well  have  disarmed  the 
suspicions  of  less  cunning  persons.  He  did  not,  accordingly,  re 
lax  his  watch  or  exertions ;  but,  affecting  the  utmost  confidence 
in  the  official,  he  put  on  a  frankness  of  speech  which,  for  him, 
required  no  little  effort.  When  he  came  for  the  despatches  at 
three  o'clock,  he  said,  in  reply  to  the  renewed  question  — 

"  What  more  do  you  think  necessary,  Master  Stillwater,  for  se 
curing  the  pirate?"  — 

"  Nothing  just  now,  your  honor.  As  yet,  I  've  got  no  clues  to 
his  hiding-place.  But,  when  I  'm  sure  that  he 's  in  town,  and  can 
find  out  where  he  is,  then  I  shall  come  to  your  excellency  for  the 
necessary  force  for  his  capture." 

When  he  was  gone,  and  Calvert  came  forth  from  the  chamber 
where  he  had  heard  everything,  the  governor  said  — 

"  I  fancy  I  have  disarmed  that  scamp  of  all  suspicions." 

"  Not  so,"  answered  the  more  sagacious  cruiser.  "  You  hare 
surprised  him,  that  is  all.  But  he  has  no  more  faith  in  you  than 
before.  Surprising  him  by  your  promptness,  without  disarming 
his  suspicions,  has  only  made  him  more  vigilant.  He  knows 


THE   DESOLATE   HEART.  279 

more  than  he  has  told  you.  When  a  cunning  fellow,  who  is  cold 
blooded,  as  all  merely  cunning  people  are,  puts  on  a  voluntary  show 
of  frankness,  he  is  then  most  dangerous.  In  his  frankness  he  is 
ostentatious.  Of  course,  he  has  his  object  in  it.  You  must  be 
more  than  ever  vigilant.  He  will  be  communicating  with  the 
council.  Have  you  a  trusty  rogue  whom  you  can  put  upon  hi3 
heels?  You  must  have  his  movements  watched.  Be  sure  he 
will  watch  yours,  and  I  must  relieve  your  house  of  my  presence 
this  very  night." 

u  Where  will  you  go  ?" 

"  Better  that  you  should  know  nothing.  I  will  take  care  of 
myself.  I  will  see,  too,  that  he  is  watched." 

We  need  not  pursue  the  conference,  which  was  one  simply  of 
details.  That  night,  Calvert  left  the  governor's  mansion  as  darkly 
as  he  came.  He  soon  found  another  hiding-place  under  the 
guidance  of  Franks,  with  whom,  and  Belcher,  he  had  a  long  con 
ference.  With  the  latter  he  crossed  the  river  to  Gowdey's  castle. 
Here,  another  conference  took  place,  between  these  parties ;  but 
this  chiefly  contemplated  other  matters.  Gowdey  made  a  rough 
map,  at  the  instance  of  Calvert,  showing  the  topography  of  all  the 
region  lying  along  the  coast  from  the  Kiawah  to  the  Stono  rivers, 
and  to  the  Edisto  beyond,  and  inland  up  to  the  barony  of  Sir 
Edward  Berkeley.  The  routes  were  described,  their  bearings 
shown,  and  all  the  distances  accurately  given. 

"The  ship  must  shift  her  ground,  Belcher.  She  must  run 
round,  in  a  few  nights,  to  Cooper  river ;  run  up  out  of  sight  from 
the  harbor ;  and  we  must  discharge  the  rest  of  the  cargo  in  the 
woods  above.  But  I  have  told  Franks  everything  on  that  head. 
The  rest  remains  for  you.  You  will  go  with  me  to-night.  Gow 
dey  will  let  you  have  his  horse.  You  must  see  the  governor  to 
morrow,  Gowdey,  and  get  his  sanction,  if  possible,  for  picking 
up  a  score  of  stout  fellows.  Tell  him  everything,  which  you 
yourself  kr  -w,  which  justifies  us  in  suspecting  these  red  men  of 
mischief.  If  still  he  refuses  to  give  you  the  men,  get  them  your 
self.  Here  is  bounty -money ;  and  I  will  see  that  you  have  six 
months'  pay  for  a  dozen  at  least." 

At  midnight,  Calvert  and  Belcher  were  upon  the  road.  By 
dawn  they  were  on  the  banks  of  the  creek  in  which  the  Happy- 
go-Lucky  was  harbored. 


280  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Calvert's  coming  was  a  surprise ;  even  the  wonted  audacity  of 
Lieutenant  Molyneaux  failing  him  for  a  moment.  He  had  not 
looked  for  his  superior  from  this  quarter.  But,  whether  Calvert 
had  suspicions  or  not,  he  never  gave  the  slightest  indication  of 
them.  He  was  simply  taciturn  ;  he  had  no  reproaches ;  spoke  of 
the  discipline  of  the  vessel ;  and  gave  his  orders  with  regard  to  her 
future  disposition,  only  leaving  the  period  of  the  ship's  removal 
in  doubt,  to  be  determined  by  his  further  orders  through  Belcher. 
But  he  made  a  selection  of  a  dozen  of  his  best  marines,  put 
them  under  an  orderly,  bade  them  be  in  readiness  for  any  call, 
and  keep  their  weapons  ready.  To  both  lieutenants  he  said,  at 
parting : — 

"  Let  these  men  march  the  moment  Belcher  calls  for  them,  and 
he  will  assume  the  direction  of  the  party  until  he  joins  me.  Let 
him  be  implicitly  obeyed.  Meanwhile,  have  the  ship  ready  to 
move  with  the  first  wind,  and  as  soon  after  Belcher  brings  my 
orders  as  possible.  You  can  not  be  too  vigilant,  gentlemen.  The 
Indians  are  growing  numerous,  and  you  must  watch  the  land  as 
well  as  the  river.  See  that  your  men  do  not  wander.  They 
will  be  cut  off.  Of  course,  you  have  suffered  none  of  them  to  go 
to  the  city  ?" 

This  was  said  carelessly,  affirmed  rather  than  asked.  He  did 
not  wait  for  the  answer,  which  he  would  have  found  a  confused 
one.  The  suggestion  somewhat  agitated  Molyneaux.  We  shall 
see  hereafter,  perhaps,  that  the  first  lieutenant  was  even  more  of 
an  offender  than  Calvert  thought  him.  But,  when  Belcher,  after 
they  had  left  the  ship,  and  remounted  their  steeds,  proceeded  to 
certain  detailed  passages  in  respect  to  his  dealing  with  the  discon 
tents,  Calvert  silenced  him. 

"  I  know  all  that  you  would  say.  perhaps  more  than  you  gmvs. 
I  have  had  other  agencies  at  work,  and  know  exactly  how  fur  he 
has  gone  with  the  men ;  nay,  I  could  almost  put  my  hards  on  the 
very  fellows  whom  he  has  corrupted.  But  his  schen^  %s  are  not 
yet  matured.  Neither  his  fruit  nor  mine  is  ripe.  I  shall  be 
able  to  anticipate  all  his  purposes.  He  is  simply  a  brave  block 
head,  whom  Nature  never  designed  for  a  conspirator.  But  for  thft 
men  themselves,  I  could  almost  suffer  the  fellow  to  proceed.  He 
little  knows,  Jack,  how  cheerfully  I  could  surrender  the  little 
vessel  to  htr  fate,  and  be  content  to  wear  out  the  rest  of  my  poor 


THE   DESOLATE    HEART.  281 

time  in  the  obscurest  solitude  of  sea,  or  rock,  or  forest,  that  an 
outlawed  heart  may  find,  in  which  to  seek  a  grave  and  find 
rest !" 

Belcher  would  have  remonstrated  with  this  woful  self-abandon 
ment,  but  Calvert  hushed  him  : — 

"  Of  what  use,  Jack  ?     Do  you  not  know  me  by  this  time  ?" 

"  Oh  !  sir,  is  there  no  hope  ?" 

"  Hope  is  the  child's  star,  which  it  fain  would  clutch  !  I  have 
done  with  it.  I  know  too  much  —  know  all !  Life  has  nothing 
in  reserve.  I  can  no  longer  deceive  myself  with  any  dream  of 
my  own :  how  idle  to  show  me  one  of  yours !  I  tell  you  I  have 
grown  indifferent  to  all  things  in  this  weary  world." 

"Oh!"  groaned  Belcher,  bitterly;  and  then,  as  if  in  soliloquy, 
"  O  for  a  grapple,  yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  with  the  biggest  cruiser 
of  the  dons !" 

A  sad  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  Calvert  as  he  heard  the 
speech,  and  he  answered  mournfully : — 

"  Do  you  think,  because  I  am  indifferent  to  all  things,  Jack, 
that  I  would  not  do  many  things  —  that  especially?  Yes,  I  could 
pray  for  that,  as  the  last  act  to  finish  the  drama  fitly.  To  fight 
the  dons  would  be  easy ;  nay,  to  feel  the  thrill  and  passion  of  the 
conflict  —  as  I  have  felt  it  when  I  had  a  hope  —  that,  too,  would 
seem  natural  enough.  Do  not  suppose  that,  because  I  have  sur 
vived  hope,  I  have  survived  impulse.  I  must  still,  even  while  I 
live,  work  down  these  restless  energies  which  find  their  stimulus 
in  the  very  disappointments  which  follow  every  effort.  They 
drive  me  forward,  as  a  bird  before  the  storm ;  but  I  have  no  aim 
—  there  is  no  port  which  I  would  seek :  the  bark  is  rudderless  — 
she  cares  not  whither  she  drives." 

Jack  Belcher  had  no  answrer  but  a  deep  sob ;  and  the  two  rode 
on  in  silence  through  the  thick  forests.  They  met  with  no  in 
terruption.  When,  at  length,  they  had  reached  a  point  which 
Calvert  judged  to  be  about  a  mile  from  the  barony  of  Kiawah, 
he  stopped,  alighted,  and  motioned  Belcher  to  do  the  same.  He 
then  threw  himself  upon  the  sward,  and,  covering  his  eyes,  lay 
awhile  without  speaking.  Belcher  did  not  seek  to  disturb  his 
revery.  When  he  did  speak,  his  tone,  words,  and  manner,  con 
veyed,  more  fully  than  anything  he  had  said  before,  the  hopeless 
apathy  of  his  soul.  The  mind  might  be  present  in  iU  fullest  \igor 


282  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

—  the  energies  of  manhood,  the  courage,  the  resolve  —  but  oh, 
how  mournful  the  desolation  that  seemed  to  wither  up  the  heart ! 

"  The  sun  shines,  I  think,  Belcher.  The  sun  shines  !  There 
is  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen ;  and  how  sweet  is  the  peace  of  these 
forests !  if  we  could  only  sink  into  the  earth,  taking  root,  and 
spreading  out,  simply  to  grow,  like  these  trees,  and  not  to  feel 
anything  but  growth  and  sunshine  !  But  such  is  not  for  us  —  not 
for  me.  I  have  no  growth,  no  sunshine ;  but  I  have  toils  tc 
achieve,  and  perils  to  encounter,  nevertheless.  Who  shall  say 

when  these  shall  end  ?  It  matters  little I  think  I  have 

told  you  everything.  You  will  do  what  I  have  bidden.  If  aught 
happens  to  me,  you  know  what  is  to  be  done.  My  wife  must  be 
cared  for.  You  will  protect  her.  You  know  where  our  treasures 
are  secured :  I  leave  you  in  full  guardianship  of  the  trust.  To 
put  her  in  safety  once  more ;  to  save  these  poor  fellows  —  ay, 
even  the  faithless  among  them,  and  from  themselves  —  is  my  lirst 
duty.  I  must  do  it.  I  have  brought  them  hither ;  have  done 
something  toward  making  their  present  life  acceptable ;  and  this 
life  is  one  which  is  banned  by  law.  I  must  put  them  in  safety. 
I  will  carry  them  to  the  isthmus,  provide  each  with  the  means  of 
honest  livelihood,  and  —  for  the  rest !  —  what  more  ?" 

"  Yourself !"  gasped  Belcher. 

"  It  will  be  time  to  think  of  myself  when  I  have  done  for 
these." 

"  O  my  dear  master,  do  not  speak  so  hopelessly !  Why  should 
you  not  share  the  retreat  that  you  seek  for  your  people  ?  Why 
should  we  not  —  your  wife,  and  I,  your  poor,  long-tried  servant 

—  why  should  we  not  all  live  together  in  some  quiet  retreat  upon 
the  isthmus?     It  is  a  peaceful  world  —  almost  to  itself — is  soli 
tary  enough,  God  knows,  for  any  sore  heart;  but  the  sky  is 
bright,  and  the  air  mild,  and  the  fruits  delicious,  and  the  flowers 
beautiful.     And  the   senora  too !     O  my  dear  master !   she  is  a 
child,  I  know,  and  perhaps  will  never  quite  understand  you,  or 
any  Englishman ;   but,  as  I  am  a  living  man,  and  your  faithful 
servant,  I  do  believe  she  loves  you  as  truly  as  it  is  possible  for 
her  to  love  any  mortal  man.     It  is  not  with  these  Spaniards  of 
the  isthmus  to  feel  very  passionately :  she 's  like  the  sky,  and  the 
flowers,  and  the  fruits  of  her  country.     She 's  changeable  of  tem 
per,  and  she  can  never  answer  to  a  strong  thought  in  a  serious 


THE    DESOLATE    HEART.  283 

soul  ;  but  she's  true  !  and,  I  tell  you— I  feel  it,  I  know  it— she 
loves  you,  and  none  but  you,  and  as  much  as  she  can  ever  love 
any  living  man." 

"  Why,  Belcher,  you  are  eloquent." 

"  No,  no,  master !  only  my  heart  is  full,  and  I  must  talk  out  01 
cry  ;  and  —  I  am  doing  both." 

"  We  can  not  turn  the  leaves  of  our  lives  at  pleasure,  Jack,  and 
will  what  is  to  be  written  there.  It  may  be  as  you  say.  Did 
you  suppose  that  I  would  abandon  you  or  her  ?  No,  no !  Let 
me  suffer  as  I  may,  I  will  be  no  savage.  I  have  only  spoken  to 
you  of  my  hopelessness;  only  spoken  of  things  for  you  to  do, 
should  the  Fates  deprive  me  of  the  power  to  do.  I  hold  my  pur 
poses  subject  to  my  necessities.  I  see  great  dangers  before  me, 
and  many  troubles.  To  save  these  very  men,  against  their  will 
—  this  is,  perhaps,  the  worst;  but  it  shall  be  tried.  For  the 
rest  —  but  you  already  have  your  instructions.  Watch  here, 
while  I  sleep  for  one  hour.  Then  leave  me,  and  find  your  way 
to  Gowdey's  castle,  and  help  his  preparations.  Take  charge  of 
the  place  if  he  would  go  to  town.  I  hope  to  be  with  you  at 
midnight." 


284  THE   CASS1QUE    OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE   JOLLY    ROGER. 

"  Eang  out  the  sign,  the  fatal  sign  of  blood, 
Wcven  while  the  hurricane  sweeps  the  sea  with  rage, 
And  strews  the  shore  with  wreck  of  goodly  ships ! 
Now  swear  beneath  its  folds  ;  while,  overhead, 
In  the  black  sky,  the  trooping  fiends  shriek  joy 
And  welcome  to  the  kindred  souls  below, 
That  swear  to  bring  them  homage."  —  The  Pirate. 

AND,  closing  his  eyes,  our  rover  sank  almost  immediately  to 
sleep,  awaking  at  the  very  moment  which  he  had  designated. 
Such  is  the  force  of  habit  with  all  persons  who  are  accustomed  to 
keep  vigil,  and  are  compelled  to  seize  capricious  moments  for  the 
relief  of  Nature  in  her  exhaustion. 

Having  given  Belcher  instructions  in  respect  to  his  route,  and 
warned  him  to  guard  against  all  chance  encounters,  whether  with 
red  men  or  white,  Calvert  shook  the  hand  of  that  faithful  follower ; 
and,  mounting  their  horses,  the  two  went  different  ways,  Belcher 
taking  his  progress  toward  Gowdey's  block-house,  and  Calvert 
shaping  his  route  for  the  barony  of  his  brother. 

Once  there,  he  was  careful  to  conceal  his  steed  in  the  deepest 
coverts,  yet  convenient  to  his  reach ;  then  he  walked  forward  till 
the  grounds  of  the  new  settlement  began  to  appear  through  the 
woods. 

His  first  object  was  to  visit  the  tree  in  which  the  sheaf  of  ar 
rows  had  been  deposited  by  Cussoboe.  He  found  a  second  shaft 
broken,  as  he  expected.  As  before,  he  supplied  its  place.  Then 
he  resumed  his  espionage  upon  the  premises. 

He  soon  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  brother,  the  cassique ;  saw  him, 
still  impetuously  busied  with  his  workmen ;  and,  in  the  course  of 


THE   JOLLY   ROGER.  285 

his  watch,  noted  the  Indian  boy,  wandering  about  the  settlement, 
accompanied  by  Grace  Masterton ;  she  rather  leading  him  than 
he  her,  and  eagerly  challenging  his  observation  to  the  thousand 
wonders,  in  her  eyes,  of  that  primitive  world  which  she  now  for 
the  first  time  inhabited. 

Let  us  leave  Calvert  to  this  espionage,  which  shall  not  profit 
him  greatly,  even  though  he  may  satisfy  that  curiosity  —  if  we 
may  describe,  by  such  a  word,  the  mood  which  prompted  him  — 
which  was  perhaps  the  only  object  of  his  watch.  It  was  a  wast 
ing  care  which  possessed  him ;  and  his  eye  grew  dim,  and  his 
face  pale,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him,  while  his  watch  was  pro 
tracted.  His  was  the  nature  which  required  great  physical  exer 
tions  to  work  off  the  stimulating  passions  which  excited  him; 
and,  lacking  these,  during  the  hours  devoted  to  this  unprofitable 
employment,  his  excitements  grew  momently  more  powerful,  and 
told  upon  his  frame.  His  movements  were  marked  by  a  nervous 
and  irregular  energy ;  his  action  was  spasmodic ;  he  started  now 
at  every  sound  in  the  woods ;  he  found  his  fancies  active,  as  it 
were,  in  the  mood  equally  of  experience  and  judgment;  he  felt 
himself  no  longer  the  cool,  deliberate  master,  of  either  his  situa* 
fton,  his  resources,  or  his  own  moods.  It  was  only  when  he  could 
throw  himself  into  the  interests  of  others,  while  planning  for  his 
ship,  people,  or  the  colony  —  working  in  concert  with  Gowdey  and 
others,  in  anticipation  of  danger  —  that  he  felt  reassured  on  the 
subject  of  his  own  manhood.  More  than  once  a  strong  impulse 
seized  him  to  dart  forward,  join  his  brother,  denounce  him  where 
he  stood,  no  matter  in  what  presence,  and  have  any  issue  with 
him  which  should  effect  a  crisis ;  or  to  grapple  with  the  tools  of 
the  workmen,  and  lose  his  intellectual  nature  in  the  mere  brute 
exertions  of  his  physical. 

We  will  suppose  a  week  to  pass  in  these  employments :  by  day, 
in  surveillance  of  the  barony ;  by  night,  in  riding  to  Gowdey's, 
passing  over  to  the  city,  or  cantering  up  to  the  cruiser  where  she 
still  lay  in  her  snug  harborage  up  the  river.  The  tides  happened 
to  be  low,  however,  the  winds  were  ahead,  and  there  were  rea 
sons  why  the  Happy-go-Lucky  should  not  yet  change  her  posi 
tion.  When  Calvert  now  visited  the  ship,  he  did  so  on  horse 
back  ;  but  h  3  took  care  to  leave  his  horse  in  the  woods,  to  approach 
stealthily,  and  never  appeared  on  shipboard.  His  visits  were 


286  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAF. 

unsuspected,  save  by  one  of  the  crew,  who,  previously  counselled, 
knew  where  to  expect  him,  and  had  learned  to  distinguish  his 
whistle  in  the  thickets  from  that  of  any  wandering  bird. 

From  this  person  our  rover  gathered  a  certain  knowledge 
nightly  of  what  was  done  in  the  ship.  But,  though  he  heard 
much,  he  heard  not  all.  There  were  still  some  things  beyond  the 
scrutiny  of  Bill  Hazard — such  was  the  fellow's  name,  or  nom  de 
guerre.  The  factious  lieutenant,  Molyneaux,  was  working  in  se 
cret,  with  a  degree  of  circumspection,  the  credit  of  which  was  due 
to  one  of  his  accomplices  rather  than  to  his  own  sagacity.  This 
was  an  old  sea-dog,  a  genuine  pirate,  who,  having  served  an  ap 
prenticeship  among  the  "  Brothers  of  the  Coast,"  as  the  pirates 
called  themselves,  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  the  less  excep 
tionable  practices  of  one  who  still  claimed  to  sail  under  a  quasi 
commission  of  the  British  crown.  He,  it  may  be  said  here,  was 
the  original  tempter  of  Molyneaux.  He  found  him  impatient  of 
control,  eager  for  action,  anxious  to  be  in  sole  authority,  and  es 
pecially  jealous  of  his  superior.  The  old  sailor  took  the  full 
measure  of  his  man,  and  laid  his  baits  accordingly.  He  found 
hi  inaccessible  enough  ;  and,  though  insinuating  his  temptations,  at 
first,  with  sufficient  caution,  it  was  very  soon  easy  to  speak  openly. 

Sam  Fowler,  alias  "  Squint-eyed  Sam,"  became  the  right-hand 
man,  the  chief  counsellor  of  Molyneaux,  and  his  agent  for  dis 
seminating  treason  among  the  crew.  He  had  won  over  a  goodly 
number,  though  but  few  were  admitted  to  the  more  private  coun 
cils  of  the  two  heads  of  the  conspiracy.  The  plot  had  been  some 
time  in  progress,  and  never  standing  quite  still  at  any  time  since 
its  first  inception.  It  had  been  broached  between  the  lieutenant 
and  Sam  several  months  before,  and  while  they  lay  at  Tarnpico. 
But  it  had  never  been  so  thoroughly  matured  as  now,  when  the 
captain,  and  his  satellite,  Jack  Belcher,  were  so  frequently  absent. 
And  now,  such  had  been  its  progress  to  maturity,  that  the  frequent 
question,  with  all  the  guilty  parties,  was  simply  as  to  the  proper 
moment  for  firing  the  train  which  they  had  so  skilfully  laid. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  when  Molyneaux  made  his  way  stealthily 
from  the  ship  to  the  shore,  and  buried  himself  from  sight  among 
those  mighty  trees  in  which  the  fair  Zulieme  had  roused  up  all 
the  sylvan  echoes,  by  her  joyous  laughter,  as  she  danced,  capered, 
swung,  when  the  vessel  first  ran  into  her  harbor  of  seclusion. 


THE  JOLLY   ROGER.  287 

Here,  at  a  spot  which  had  been  already  too  frequently  used  for 
the  purposes  of  conspiracy,  he  was  joined,  at  intervals,  by  some 
five  of  the  more  intelligent  seamen  who  had  been  won  over  by 
the  arts  of  Sam  Fowler.  Each  was  challenged  as  he  came.  He 
gave  no  name  —  only  a  pass-word  ;  and,  squat  in  the  covert,  they 
proceeded  to  report  progress  severally,  and  to  discuss  the  plans  of 
the  future. 

But  where  is  the  chief  agent  in  the  treason  ?  Sam  Fowler  is 
not  present.  He  is,  however,  momently  expected. 

He  was  even  then  in  the  breach  of  orders  ;  had  been  despatched 
to  the  city  secretly  the  night  before,  in  a  skiff,  with  two  stout  row 
ers,  on  a  mission  which  concerned  a  variety  of  illegal  interests. 

The  rogues  had  stores  of  their  own  for  which  they  sought  a 
market.  They,  too,  had  emissaries  in  the  town,  as  well  as  their 
superior.  They  had  passions  and  appetites,  for  which  the  town 
could  afford  the  only  proper  theatre ;  and  they  had  a  mission  to 
execute,  on  behalf  of  Molyneaux  himself.  All  parties  were  ac 
cordingly  impatient  for  the  return  of  Sam  ;  and  what  discussion 
took  place  among  them  before  he  arrived,  was  confined  mostly 
to  topics  which  had  been  on  the  tapis  long  before.  But,  among 
conspirators,  iteration  is  an  essential  necessity  for  confirming  them 
in  a  purpose  which  implies  no  small  peril. 

At  length,  Sam  Fowler  came,  stealing  through  the  thickets  like 
a  catamount.  He  soon  made  his  way  into  the  circle.  The  boat 
had  been  left  hidden  in  the  rushes  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below.  The 
old  sailor  took  his  place  among  the  brethren  with  the  freedom  of 
one  who  knew  his  importance. 

"  Some  grog,  fellows,  'fore  I  begin.  I  'm  as  blasted  thirsty  aa 
the  chap  as  was  in  Abraham's  buzzom.  The  Jamaica  'gin  out 
five  miles  below  ;  not  a  blasted  sup  after  that !  And,  somehow, 
'twas  short  commons  in  town ;  I  had  to  lie  so  close.  'T  wan't  as  it 
used  to  be  there." 

The  liquor  was  soon  provided.  Conspiracy,  and  among  pirates, 
is  wonderfully  helped  by  its  potations.  The  supply  of  grog  was 
abundant.  Long,  and  strong,  and  deep,  was  the  draught  taken  by 
the  old  sea-dog,  whose  sentences,  by-the-way,  were  so  larded  with 
oaths  as  to  render  them  only  in  part  intelligible.  We  shall  strip 
them  of  most  of  his  weeds  of  rhetoric.  When  he  had  fairly  con 
eluded  his  draught,  which  was  taken  with  exceedingly  deliberate 


288  1HE   CASSIQUE    OP    KIAWAH. 

gusto,  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  a  gorgeous  bandanna,  Sam  con* 
descended  to  enlighten  his  brethren. 

"I've  sold  your  plate,  Jordan  ;  your  silks,  Foster;  your  tobac 
co,  Rollins.  Got  the  cash  for  'em.  You  shall  have  it  when  we 
empty  the  boat.  Done  a  pretty  good  business,  considerin'  that 
the  honest  traders  always  make  out  to  cheat  the  free  bretheren. 
And  they  say  prayers  while  doin'  it.  But  that's  no  matter,  nei 
ther  here  nor  there.  We  ixpects  as  much :  always  ixpect  to  be 
cheated  when  the  trader  makes  a  prayer  while  makin'  a  barg'in. 
They're  mighty  vartuous  and  religious,  on  a  sudden,  in  Charles- 
toon.  The  old  church  was  bad  enough  in  its  goodness ;  but  these 
Dissenters,  as  they  calls  'em  —  and  town 's  full  of  'em  —  they  're 

the  d dest  rogues  that  ever  lied  in  the  name  of  God !  It 

a'molt  turns  my  stomach  when  I  has  to  deal  with  'em.  I  ixpects 
to  be  cheated  ;  but  this  callin'  in  o'  God  to  be  a  witness,  as  it  were, 
ag'in  himself,  is  worse  than  any  Spanish  practice.  But  there  's 
no  helpin'  it.  We  has  to  do  with  'em,  or  we  can 't  trade.  Now, 
Sproulls,  the  man  I  deal  with,  he 's  about  as  good  as  the  best ;  but 
though  he  grins  at  his  prayers,  jest  as  ef  he  was  a-cheatin'  the 
Lord  himself,  he  can  't  no  more  help  prayin'  than  he  can  fly.  I 
jest  said  to  him,  '  Shut  up  your  oven,  and  say  no  more  prayers 
if  you  please ;'  but  he  kept  on  jest  the  same,  sayin',  by  way  of 
ixcusin' himself — 'It's  no  use  to  try,  Fowler;  I  can't  help  it, 
and  it  don  n't  mean  nothiri' !  It 's  only  a  way  I  've  got.'  And 
jest  so  I  answered  him  when  he  wanted  to  put  a  clapper  on  my 
mouth  for  swearin'.  Says  I,  *  Them 's  my  prayers,  and  they  don't 
mean  no  more  than  yours.  It 's  jest  a  way  I  've  got.'  Then  he 
showed  his  teeth  ag'in,  jest  like  a  shark  in  shallow  water  among  a 
school  of  mullets,  and  we  went  on  with  our  trade  till  the  cheat 
was  over." 

"  Did  you  see  Franks  and  Sylvester  ?" 

"  Did  n't  I  see  'em  !  But  I  was  n't  sich  a  dummy  as  to  let  'em 
see  me.  Sylvester  's  got  religion  in  all  his  garments :  he  shakes 
it  out  as  he  walks.  His  hat 's  got  religion  ;  his  coat ;  his  breeches ; 
the  tie  of  his  cravat ;  and  I  think  his  nose  has  got  a  good  inch 
longer  and  sharper  from  the  new  vartue  that 's  in  it !  He 's  all 
over  religion  ;  and  sich  a  sample  of  it,  that  there's  no  more  trust- 
in*  him  with  a  trade  than  trustin'  your  finger  in  the  gripe  of  a 
Btonc-crab.  Franks  ain't  so  vartuous ;  but  my  business  was  to 


THE   JOLLY   ROGER  289 

watch  him  and  make  out  what  I  could,  without  lettin'  him  over 
haul  me  with  his  eye.  He'  as  close  as  he's  sharp,  as  you  all 
know,  and  I  reckon  is  true  to  the  captain  as  a  trump.  Of  course> 
'twould  n't  do  to  let  Franks  or  Sylvester  know  that  I  was  in 
town  ;  for  I  reckon  that  both  of  them 's  in  the  captain's  books,  jest 
as  deep  as  ever.  1  'm  not  supposin'  that  any  religion  of  either 
will  do  much  to  stop  a  trade  if  they  can  make  it." 

"  Did  you  get  sight  of  the  captain  ?"  asked  Molyneaux. 

"  No !  and  I  had  all  the  lights  out,  too.  I  tried  my  best  to  g(.t 
into  his  wake.  But  he  carries  no  flag.  I  could  n't  hear  a  word 
from  Sproulls,  though  he  was  monstrous  curious  with  me,  and  I 
reckon  was  jest  as  curious  with  all  other  persons.  It 's  clear  that 
the  captain,  wherever  be  is,  keeps  mighty  close ;  and  there 's  rea 
son  for  it.  There 's  a  big  price  offered  for  him,  so  I  hear  tell, 
though  there 's  no  open  proclamation  yet !  Sproulls  was  quite 
curious  to  get  out  of  me  what  he  could.  *  Where  was  the  ship  ?' 
he  asked.  'Over  the  bar,'  was  my  answer.  'I'm  jest  sent  up 
with  the  boat  to  get  medicine,  and  I  took  the  chance  to  sell  off'  a 
little  prog.'  But  that's  not  enough  for  him  ;  and  ef  he  'd  ha'  had 
a  chance,  he  'd  ha'  had  a  spy  at  my  heels,  I  'm  thinkin',  ef  't  was 
only  to  get  wiser  on  a  poor  man's  secrets.  He 's  curious,  that 
Sproulls.  He  '11  not  blow  so  long  as  the  profit  comes  in ;  but 
he,  too,  is  gettin'  more  and  more  vartuous  from  what  I  know'd 
him  a  year  ago  —  and  that  made  it  only  the  worse  for  my 
barg'ins.  He  did  cheat  me  worse  than  ever  this  time.  You'll 
see,  fellows,  by  the  bills,  when  I  settle.  There's  a  sort  of 
fashion  of  religion  now,  'mong  all  the  people  in  town ;  and  you 
get  less  money  and  more  preachin'  for  your  goods  than  I  've  ever 
know'd  before ;  but  there 's  a  better  chance,  for  that  very  reason,  of 
finding  friends  for  sich  a  trade  as  ours.  The  more  they  can  make, 
the  more  vartuous  the  business  ;  they're  all  hot  ag'in  the  king's  proc 
lamation  ag'in  pirates.  They  say — and  that's  true  —  that  we're 
their  best  friends  ag'in  the  Spaniards.  Sproulls  said  we  might 
come  up  to  the  wharf,  and  nobody  would  trouble  us  among  the 
people,  though  he  did  confess  that  the  governor  and  council  were 
sich  bloody  fools  as  to  talk  of  minding  the  king's  orders.  I  reckon, 
from  what  I  seed  and  heard,  that  we  might  haul  up  the  Happy -go- 
Lucky  right  ag'in  the  town  battery,  and  nobody  ever  think  to  p'int 
a  cannon  at  her.  The  captain's  gettin'  scary  without  any  'casion." 

13 


290  THE   CASSTQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  something 's  the  matter  with  him  here"  replied 
Molyneaux,  scornfully,  touching  his  forehead  with  his  finger. 
"  He  could  fight  once,  boys,  bravely  enough ;  but  ever  since  he 
had  that  knock-over  from  the  Spanish  splinter,  he  's  been  weak  in 
the  upper  story :  ay,  and  in  the  heart  too,  or  he  would  n't  care  a 
button  for  the  king's  proclamation.  Why  should  we  fear  the 
king's  proclamation  any  more  than  we  do  his  cruisers  ?  We  can 
trip  the  heels,  and,  yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  muzzle  every  gun  in 
her  own  porthole,  in  the  very  best  of  them ;  yes,  and  give  them 
the  advantage  over  us,  five  guns  a  side.  But  for  the  captain's 
cowardice,  fellows,  we  might  be  gutting  the  Spanish  galleons 
now !" 

"  And  we  will  be  doin'  it  soon,  too,  if  other  men  have  their 
hearts  in  the  right  places,"  said  Sam  Fowler,  significantly. 

"  The  sooner  the  better !"  was  the  common  answer. 

"  And  if  the  courage  be  all,  men,"  quoth  the  lieutenant,  "  I  can 
answer  for  one,  who  will  never  back  out  from  any  don  that  ever 
sailed  the  gulf." 

"  Ay,  indeed !"  responded  Sam  Fowler.  "  That 's  all  well 
enough  —  all  right  enough,  lieutenant ;  but  there 's  not  enough  of 
it.  It 's  not  the  dons  only  that  we  must  n't  show  our  backs  to ; 
it 's  not  the  Spaniards  only  that  we  've  got  to  face  !  I  'm  bold  to 
say  that  ef  we  are  to  do  the  right  business,  we  must  muzzle  a 
king's  cruiser,  and  the  marchant  of  any  nation,  jest  as  bold  as  we 
muzzle  a  don  —  and  ef  only  to  show  that  we  're  not  guine  to  let 
ourselves  be  muzzled  by  any  of  'em.  I  'm  for  a  free  flag  of  our 
own,  even  if  we  have  to  hang  out  the  *  Jolly  Roger !'  Ay  !  I  'm 
not  afraid  to  speak  it.  Run  up  the  l  Jolly  Roger,'  say  I ;  and  1 
drink  to  4TiiE  JOLLY  ROGER'  for  ever!  Here,  boys,  is  to  the 
'  Brothers  of  the  Coast'  —  the  free  life,  the  black  flag,  and  death 
to  the  traitor  and  the  coward  that's  afraid  to  fight  under  the  Jolly 
Roger !" 

There  was  a  murmur  of  excitement.  It  might  be  enthusiasm. 
With  some  of  the  parties,  no  doubt  the  bold  speech  of  Sam  Fowler 
was  in  considerable  degree  contagious.  But  it  is  doubtful  wheth 
er,  before  this  meeting,  the  conspirators  had  been  prepared  to  run 
up  the  black  flag.  They  had  mostly  contemplated  nothing  more 
than  running  away  with  the  ship  and  getting  a  more  flexible  cap 
tain.  To  defy  the  laws  of  nations  openly,  and  at  a  season  when 


THE   JOLLY   ROGER.  291 

the  cruisers  of  Britain  and  Spain  were  everywhere  en  the  alert 
against  piracy,  required  no  little  audacity ;  and  it  is  probable  that 
the  speech  of  Fowler  would  have  fallen  cheerlessly  upon  the 
senses  of  not  a  few  of  the  conspirators,  had  it  not  been  that  it  was 
so  promptly  seconded  by  Molyneaux.  That  unhappy  young  man, 
eager  for  power,  arrogant  in  his  vanity,  and  not  a  little  warmed 
by  strong  drink,  acting  upon  his  highly-inflammable  nature,  echoed 
the  toast  of  Fowler  with  additions ;  rising  to  his  feet,  seizing  the 
cup  from  the  hands  of  the  latter,  filling  it  to  the  brim,  drinking  its 
contents  to  the  bottom,  and  flinging  the  vessel  over  his  head  into 
the  thickets,  as  he  cried  aloud  — 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Jolly  Roger !  the  Jolly  Roger  for  ever !" 

"  Your  hand  upon  it,  lieutenant !"  said  Sam  Fowler ;  "  but  you 
need  n't  wake  up  the  woods  jest  yet !  It  '11  be  time  enough  for 
that  when  we  feel  blue  water  under  us.  Stand  round,  fellows 
—  all  round,  and  j'ine  hands!  And  now,  here  we  are,  brothers 
of  the  coast,  sworn  to  one  another  ag'in  all  the  world.  Them 
that 's  not  with  us  is  ag'in  us  !  Swear,  fellows  !  and  all  cowards 
and  traitors  to  the  sharks !" 

There  were  no  more  murmurs.  The  conspirators  were  grouped 
together  in  a  circle,  and  joined  hands,  while  Molyneaux  stood  in 
the  centre,  with  weapon  drawn,  upon  which  they  all  swore  horri 
ble  oaths  of  fidelity  to  one  another,  and  to  the  more  horrid  pur 
poses  of  crime  for  which  they  stood  leagued  together.  This  done, 
Sam  Fowler  suddenly  shook  out  over  their  heads  the  folds  of  the 
black  flag,  prepared  for  the  purpose  ;  dark  as  night ;  with  a  bloody 
fringe ;  and,  wrought  in  ghastly  white  in  the  centre,  a  skull  and 
crossbones  —  the  usual  insignia,  in  those  days,  of  the  pirate  banner. 

He  lowered  it  among  them. 

"  Every  man  kiss  the  '  Jolly  Roger !' " 

And  with  a  chill  probably  at  the  hearts  of  most  of  them,  each 
of  them  in  turn  embraced  the  gloomy  flag,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  the  ghastly  emblems  of  mortality  which  it  bore 

"  It 's  as  good  as  sworn,  fellows,"  said  Sam  Fowler.  "  As  good 
as  sworn,  I  say :  all  hell  looking  on,  and  fires  of  sulphur  lighted 
for  the  coward  and  the  traitor  that  deserts  the  flag  of  the  true 
'  Brothers  of  the  Coast' !  We  are  sworn  to  one  another  through 
thick  and  thin ;  and  we  're  the  men  to  stand  by  one  another,  til) 
all  burns  blue !  But  for  a  time,  boys,  a  keen  eye,  a  quick  hand, 


292  THE   CASS  QUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

and  a  close  tongue!  We're  not  out  of  shoal  water,  remember. 
But  it 's  only  the  length  of  an  oar,  and  there 's  sea-room  enough. 
Hearts  up  —  eyes  wide  —  and  hands  ready  !  One  drink  round,  I 
say,  fellows,  to  the  *  Jolly  Roger,'  at  the  mast-head  of  the  Happy- 
go-Lucky !" 

And  the  liquor  went  round ;  and,  even  as  they  drank,  Sam 
Fowler  kept  the  fatal  flag  in  motion  over  their  heads,  as  if,  woven 
under  some  troubled  sign,  it  was  supposed  to  be  endued  with  the 
power  to  exercise  a  demoniac  influence  over  the  souls  of  those 
who  had  sworn  to  serve  under  it. 


CONSPIRACY. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

CONSPIRACY. 

"  He  dies,  at  least !  by  fraud  or  force,  he  dies  — 
'T  is  sworn  !     His  death  alone  secures  the  prize." 

Ihe  Rover. 

"  AND  now,  boys,"  said  Fowler,  "  get  to  quarters,  one  by  one, 
without  waking  up  any  of  the  water-rats.  We'll  settle  our  small 
affairs  together  in  the  mornin'.  There's  a  good  handful  of  the 
king's  pictures  for  all  of  you.  We  understand  one  another  to 
night.  Me  and  the  lieutenant  ["  I  and  the  king"]  have  some 
thing  more  to  say  together,  which  don't  need  any  help,  and  has 
to  be  settled  in  private.  But  it's  for  the  good  of  the  cause ;  and 
you  knows  very  well  that  means  the  good  of  all.  Git  into  your 
hammocks,  quiet  as  you  can,  without  shaking  the  ship's  knees. 
Who's  on  the  watch?" 

"  Stoddart." 

"  He's  safe  !  Well,  off  with  you,  now  ;  and  we'll  have  another 
and  a  closer  talk,  to-morrow  night,  jest  here,  in  the  same  place." 

So  Sam  Fowler,  who.  with  the  habitual  dictation  of  an  old  sea- 
dog  (and,  we  may  add,  an  old  conspirator  and  turbulent),  found 
authority  easy,  when  such  was  the  game ;  and  assumed  the  pa 
role,  without  any  concession,  made  previously,  to  the  self-esteem 
of  Lieutenant  Molyneaux.  The  latter  would  have  kicked  at  this 
assumption  with  all  the  fury  of  a  Celt,  but  that  he,  too,  felt  the 
natural  force  of  an  authority  which  was  based  upon  a  superior 
experience.  Besides,  he  too,  we  may  add,  was  a  little  taken  by 
surprise  by  the  decided  movements  of  his  coadjutor. 

When  the  rest  were  gone,  and  fully  out  of  hearing,  and  Fowler 
had  satisfied  himself,  by  following  them  a  certain  distance,  that 


294  THK    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

they  were  all  moving  quietly  in  the  direction  of  the  ship,  he  re 
turned  and  resumed  the  conference. 

"  And  now,  lieutenant,  you  're  to  be  captain :  that 's  settled  in 
my  mind.  What  am  I  to  be  ?" 

"  First,  of  course.     What  else  ?" 

"  All  right !  It's  what  I  looked  for.  In  course,  you  see  what's 
to  be  done.  We've  to  run  off  with  the  ship  the  moment  we've 
got  all  things  ready  for  moving.  There's  no  stayin'  here  much 
longer.  We'll  have  the  king's  frigates  down  upon  us — two, 
three — for  jest  so  many  have  they  got  in  New  York,  and  all  on 
the  shy.  Sproulls  tells  me  that  there's  been  a  despatch  sent 
for'ard  to  bring  on  the  frigates  fast  as  wind  and  water  will  let 
'em." 

"  That  despatch  will  never  reach  !  Set  your  mind  easy  there. 
We've  got  the  fellow  fast  now  in  the  ship's  hold,  and  a  terrible 
praying  and  psalm-singing  does  he  keep  up  day  and  night.  The 
captain's  got  the  despatch.  He  fixed  the  whole  business,  and 
had  the  fellow  brought  here  and  put  under  fast  locker," 

Where  the  h — 1  can  he  be,  then  !  I  tried  my  best  to  get  upon 
his  tracks  in  town,  but  'twas  no  go.  Couldn't  hear  nor  see  noth- 
in'  of  him  ;  and  no  one  could  tell.  Sproulls  pumped  mighty  hard 
to  get  it  out  of  me ;  for  I  could  see  he  didn't  half  believe  what  I 
said  about  the  ship  over  the  bar.  He's  'cute  and  close,  and  I'm 
thinkin'  a  leetle  mixed  up  with  Sylvester.  They  goes  to  meetin' 
together ;  I  knows  that.  But  ef  the  governor  and  council  are 
inakin'  despatches  ag'in  us,  they're  not  a-guine  to  stop  at  that 
one.  We  may  overhaul  one  jigger,  but  what's  to  prevent  'em 
sendin'  a  dozen  ?  The  captain  may  be  sly  as  a  fox,  but  there's  a 
shifting  of  the  wind  in  town ;  that's  a  sign  of  bad  weather  ahead. 
In  old  times,  governor  and  council  had  a  blind  eye  for  a  free 
trader.  Is  it  so  certain  that  they  haven't  got  the  captain  himself 
somewhere  under  hatches  ?  There 's  a  squall  comin'  on  !  The 
governor's  got  wind  of  us,  and  the  council  too,  I  reckon ;  and  how 
could  they  help  it,  if  they  wanted  to  see  ?  The  town 's  full  of  our 
goods.  Fresh  fruits  are  plenty,  though  there 's  been  not  a  single 
craft  —  so  Sproulls  tells  me  —  from  any  West  Injy  port  for  nine 
teen  days  before  we  came.  In  course,  these  people  ain't  fools 
and  there 's  rogues  enough  among  'em  to  keep  'em  from  blindness, 
even  if  Natur  had  made  the  most  of  'em  the  very  best  of  fools ! 


CONSPIRACY.  295 

And  so  they  reasons  together;  and  though  they  don't  guess  where 
we  are,  they  know  we  're  somewhere  about ;  over  the  island  they 
reckon,  behind  the  swamp  ;  but  able  to  run  in  with  the  tide,  every 
night,  and  land  a  cargo.  We  can 't  keep  snug  much  longer ;  we  '11 
have  to  run  for  it ;  and  that,  too,  before  they  bring  on  their  frig 
ates.  'T  would  be  the  stupidest  thing  in  natur'  to  let  'em  catch 
us  here  at  anchor,  and  in  a  creek  in  which  we  could  n't  swing 
round,  and  in  a  river  where  a  long-sided  craft  like  ours  could  n't 
go  about,  under  a  broadside." 

"There's  hardly  any  danger  yet,  Sam,  and  we  want  all  the 
time  we  can  get.  We've  got  only  nineteen  of  the  fellows 
over." 

"  But  them 's  the  true  men  /  As  for  the  others,  they  '11  jest  do 
what  they  sees  the  boldest  men  do,  once  they  're  under  workin' 
orders.  You  get  me  together  six  fellows  that  are  ready,  tooth 
and  nail,  and  the  rest,  though  they  be  sixty,  will  be  quick  enough 
to  fall  into  the  ranks." 

"  Not  with  such  a  fellow  to  halloo  them  on  against  us  as  Harry 
Calvert," 

"  There  I  'gree  with  you.  But  where  's  he  to  halloo  them  on  ? 
Look  you,  captain  —  so  I  makes  free  to  call  you  at  once  —  I'm 
a-thinkin'  that  Captain  Calvert  will  never  pipe  our  fellows  to 
quarters  ag'in.  He  's  safe  from  us,  ef  he  ain't  safe  from  the  gov 
ernor  ;  and,  thank  the  devils,  we  're  safe  from  him !" 

"  You  think  so  !     He  was  here  three  nights  ago." 

"  And  three  days  have  gone  since  then.  Where 's  he  now  ? 
We  hear  no  more  of  him  !  I  knows  that  Franks  hain't  seed  him 
Vi  all  that  time.  No  !  I  'm  tellin'  you  jest  what 's  the  reasonable 
shinkin'.  They  've  got  Calvert  fast.  He 's  the  main  one  they 
strike  at,  for  you  see  there 's  a  good  five  hundred  pounds  offered 
for  him  one,  dead  or  alive.  They  '11  be  satisfied  to  have-him  in 
the  darbies,  and  they'll  be  pleased  to  have  our  trade  jest  the 
same." 

"  I  would  n't  trust  'em." 

"  Nor  would  I !  But  s'posin'  him  locked  up  in  cold  quarters, 
or  s'posin'  him  not  locked  up,  and  jest  schoolin'  about  on  his  own 
business,  what 's  it  to  us  any  way  ?  It  only  gives  us  the  more 
chance  to  get  off.  We  must  run,  ef  we  can.  Better  now,  when 
\ve  needn't  fight  for  it  —  when  it's  with  wind  and  tide  —  than  to 


296  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

have  a  bloody  fight  of  it  on  the  high  seas :  and  we  're  so  far  in, 
that,  if  we  do  n't  move  now,  pretty  soon,  it  must  come  to  that. 
The  first  question  is,  whether  we  shall  use  our  heels  to  please 
Captain  Calvert,  or  to  please  me  and  Captain  Molyneaux.  I  'm 
clear  that  we  should  go  for  our  own  dear  selves,  in  preference  to  a 
man  that  jest  rules  us  as  he  thinks  proper,  and  do  n't  ax  us  who 's 
pleased  besides.  He 's  been  a  famous  captain  in  his  time,  but 
somehow  he 's  only  a  Dutch  lugger  now.  He  's  not  the  man  any 
longer.  I'm  clear  for  one  thing  —  cuttin' loose  from  moorings 
here,  jest  as  soon  as  we  can,  and  not  waitin'  to  see  where  the 
wind 's  goin'  to  come  out.  If  we  wait  for  Calvert,  there 's  so 
much  more  to  do,  and  so  much  more  risk  in  the  doin'  of  it. 
There's  one  thing  which  I  wouldn't  like  to  have  to  do." 

"What's  that,  Fowler?" 

"  Cut  the  captain's  throat !" 

"  D — n  him  !  why  should  you  shirk  at  that  ?" 

"It's  not  because  I  love  him.  No!  the  devil,  no!  It's  be 
cause,  whenever  the  thing  has  to  be  done,  there'll  be  more  throats 

to  be  slit  than  the  one.  He  's  a  d d  great  fellow  in  a  fight, 

and  he 's  got  the  strength  of  Jolly  Csesar,  the  great  Roman ;  and 
he 's  got  the  trick  of  the  broadsword  and  the  tornhog  [tomahawk], 
the  knife  and  the  blunderbuss,  better  than  any  sea-captain  that 

ever  stepped  a  quarter-deck  in  our  day ;  and  he  's  got  some  d d 

true  fellows  that  '11  back  him,  ef  he  can  call  for  'em,  'gainst  any 
force  we  can  bring.  Ef  we  can  get  off  with  the  ship  without  his 
knowing,  we  must  n't  stop  to  find  out  where  he  is.  It 's  enough 
for  us  ef  he  ain't  in  our  way ;  and  that 's  jest  what  we  've  got  to 
do !  But,  ef  we  wait  for  him,  we  must  feed  the  fishes  with 
him." 

"Look  you,  Sam!  Captain  Calvert  owes  me  a  life.  I've 
sworn  to  have  it.  He  has  wounded  my  honor ;  he  has  treated 
me  with  scorn  and  insult.  I  will  have  my  revenge." 

"  You  !     Fight  with  him  ?" 

"  Man  to  man,  breast  to  breast ;  a  fair  fight,  and  no  other  man 
*o  come  between." 

"  Psho !  Captain  Molyneaux  —  so  I  begs  leave  to  call  you  — 
that 's  all  in  my  eye  and  Betty  Martin.  Do  n't  be  sich  a  Judy. 
A  man  what's  got  sich  a  great  business  on  his  hands  has  noth- 
in'  to  do  with  honor  and  revenge.  That'll  do  for  boys.  It's  all 


CONSPIRACY.  297 

gammon.  If  you  say,  now,  you  're  for  slitting  his  windpipe,  at 
the  first  good  chance,  takin'  care  that  you  keep  your  own  safe  all 
the  time,  I  do  n't  say  nothin'  ag'in  it.  It 's  all  right,  and  a  sensi 
ble  way  to  sarve  out  an  enemy  to  the  fishes ;  but  to  talk  of  a  fair 
fight,  riskin'  everything  after  we  've  got  the  stakes  in  our  own 
hands,  I  '11  never  agree  to  that." 

"  It  must  be  so,  Sam,"  answered  the  other,  doggedly.  "  I  'm 
sworn  to  it.  My  honor  demands  it.  He  shall  give  me  satisfac 
tion." 

"  Why,  so  he  shall ;  and  what  better  satisfaction  than  takin'  his 
ship,  and  leaving  him,  on  a  sort  of  maroon  here,  where  they  '11 
give  five  hundred  pounds  for  his  head,  and  where  there 's  so  many 
who  are  on  the  watch  for  him,  day  and  night,  to  get  the  prize- 
money  ?  Ef  that  ain't  takin'  satisfaction  out  of  him,  then  I  've  no 
ixperience  in  sich  a  consarn." 

"Not  enough  for  me.  I  must  crush  him  —  have  him  under 
foot  —  see  him  at  my  mercy.  My  sword  must  drink  his  blood  !" 

"  And  you  mean  to  give  him  a  fair  chance,  in  a  reg'lar  hand- 
to-hand  fight  ?" 

"  He  shall  have  nothing  less  !" 

"  Then,  ef  that 's  your  resolution,  hear  to  mine.  We  part  com 
pany.  I  thought  I  was  dealin'  with  a  man  of  sense.  I  don't 
risk  my  neck  under  the  '  Jolly  Roger,'  with  any  captain  that  talks 
about  his  honor,  and  fair  play,  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff  and  non 
sense.  I  'm  sorry,  lieutenant,  for  I  think  ef  't  wan't  for  this  redick- 
'lous  notion,  you  'd  be  the  very  man  for  us." 

"  What !  you  abandon  me,  because  I  'm  bold  enough  to  take  our 
old  captain  by  the  throat  ?" 

"  No,  by  your  leave  —  no  sich  thing !  But  because  you  're  for 
lettin'  him  take  you  by  the  throat  at  the  same  time.  And  don't 
I  know  what  '11  happen  ef  he  once  does  get  you  in  his  gripe  ? 
Why,  he  '11  slit  your  oozen  as  easy  as  he'd  slice  an  orange.  Look 
you,  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  —  I  'd  like  to  call  you  captain,  all  the 
time  —  it's  a  mighty  redick'lous  bull  that  won't  see  the  shortness 
of  his  own  horns.  Once  hitched  with  Harry  Calvert,  you  'd  soon 
enough  1'arn  the  difference  'twixt  your'n  and  his'n.  As  for  a  fight 
with  him,  man  to  man,  it's  not  in  you." 

Molyneaux  was  about  to  protest  his  skill  and  valor  with  all  the 
indignant  vanity  of  a  Milesian. 

13* 


298  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Do  n't  be  a  fool,  lieutenant !  You  're  as  brave  a  lad  as  I 
know,  and  you  can  use  a  broadsword  as  well  as  most  men ;  bat 
Harry  Calvert !  —  do  n't  be  foolish  !  That 's  not  the  way  !  Hear 
to  me.  We  '11  cut  and  run,  soon  as  the  wind  sarves,  and  we  can 
get  off  these  ceroons  of  indigo.  We  '11  be  off  while  Calvert 's 
ashore,  no  matter  where.  We'll  leave  him  —  maroon  him,  and 
in  good  quarters,  I  reckon.  And  ef  we  can 't  do  that,  there 's  but 
one  way  —  and  that's  to  send  him  down-stream,  swimming  like  a 
pig  in  a  gale  of  wind,  with  a  gapin'  throat.  Ef  we  manage  that 
sensibly,  we  can  do  it  easily ;  and  the  rest  we  can  settle  at  New 
Providence." 

<k  I  would  rather  fight  him,  man  to  man.  It 's  a  point  of  honor, 
Sam.  Besides — " 

"  P'int  of  h — 1 !  What  have  we  got  to  do  with  sich  redick'lous 
matters  ?  Look  you,  lieutenant  —  if  you  talk  so,  I  give  you  up ; 
for  all  this  is  jest  downright  nonsense.  It 's  business  we  vre  on, 
now  ;  not  honor !  It 's  part  of  the  business  that  we  leave  Captain 
Calvert  to  take  care  of  himself,  on  a  coast  where  he  knows  all  the 
bearings  as  well  as  we  do ;  or,  if  he  comes  in  our  way,  and  only 
when  he  comes  in  our  way,  when  the  word  is  *  Cut  and  run,'  then 
we  cut  him  out  of  it.  If  you  say  4  No,'  then  there  's  an  end  to  the 
trade.  We  '11  stand  off,  jest  where  we  was  before,  and  no  harm 
done !" 

"  You  're  hard  on  me,  Sam  Fowler.  I  Ve  let  you  have  your 
own  way  in  the  management  of  the  affair  so  far." 

"  Exactly !  and  who  do  you  think  could  manage  it  a  better 
way?" 

"I  don't  deny  that.  You  were  as  good  as  born  to  the  busi 
ness  ;  but  here,  the  very  first  thing  I  want  to  do  for  myself,  you 
oppose  it.  It's  true,  I  propose  to  fight:  but  the  fight  is  mine  — 
the  risk  all  mine.  I  do  n't  ask  any  man  to  peril  his  life  for  me !" 

"  And  that 's  the  redick'lous  part  of  the  notion.  Ef  you  'd  say, 
*  I  must  have  the  captain's  heart's-blood,'  and  call  upon  the  help 
of  half  a  dozen  to  make  the  thing  sart'in  sure,  and  without  any 
danger  to  your  own  throat,  there  would  be  some  sense  in  it.  But 
the  other  way  is  no  better  than  a  sort  of  madness.  I  won't  hear 
to  it." 

"  But,  Sam,  there  's  another  reason  for  putting  Calvert  out  of 
the  way." 


CONSPIRACY.  299 

"Well,  out  with  it!" 

"  Zulierae  Calvert  must  be  mine.     I  love  her  !" 

"  Does  she  love  you  ?" 

"  I  've  every  reason  to  think  so." 

"  And  I  Ve  no  reason  to  think  so  at  all.  The  woman 's  half  a 
fool,  I  'm  thinkin',  and  has  no  love  for  anything  but  plays  and  toys, 
singin'  and  jiggin'.  But  that 's  nothin'  to  the  purpose.  Ef  you 
want  the  woman,  it  don't  need  any  love  between  the  parties. 
Take  her,  ef  you  can  —  as  you  can,  and  where  you  can." 

"  But  she  '11  never  consent,  so  long  as  Calvert  is  a  living 
man." 

"  Then  butcher  him  when  you  find  him  ;  nobody  says  f  no'  to 
that ;  it's  only  against  the  nonsense  of  a  fight  with  him,  yard-arm 
to  yard-arm;  for  in  sich  a  fight  he'll  sink  you  to  Davy  Jones's 
locker,  jest  so  sure  as  you  come  to  the  grapple  !  But  who  says 
that  she  won't  take  up  with  you,  when  you  can  get  her  clear  of 
him?  It's  strange,  lieutenant,  that  a  man  that's  got  sich  a  good 
conceit  of  himself  in  some  things,  should  be  so  bashful  in  others. 
Now,  you're  a  fine  fellow  to  look  at — few  quite  so  handsome; 
and  you  're  young  and  strong,  and  can  talk  that  sort  of  gammon 
that  women  likes :  and  what 's  to  hinder  her  preference,  if  you 
come  turtle  over  her,  when  't  other's  out  of  the  way?  She'll  do 
it!" 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?" 

"Why  not?  There's  reason  enough  for  it.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  she  '11  have  any  love  in  the  business  —  any  more  than 
you—" 

"  But  I  do  love  her,  Sam." 

"  As  a  fish-hawk  loves  a  mullet !  Well,  as  you  please.  I  do  n't 
say  one  word  against  your  cuttin'  the  captain's  throat,  ef  it  conies 
easy  and  in  your  way,  and  carryin'  off"  his  woman." 

"  You  will  lend  a  hand  at  both,  Sam  ?" 

"  My  hand  on  it !     But  remember,  we  're  not  to  go  out  of  our 
way,  or  take  any  risks  for  it." 
"  I  understand." 

"  You  promise,  then,  there  's  to  be  no  more  nonsense  about  a 
fair  fight,  and  all  that  ?" 

"  I  promise  you.  You  shall  approve  all  that  I  do  in  the  mat 
ter." 


300  THE    CASSIQUK    OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Well,  that 's  spoken  like  a  man  of  sense.  And  now  to  more 
plain  business.  It 's  mighty  strange  I  could  n't  get  on  the  track 
of  Captain  Calvert  anywhere  in  town.  He  's  either  under  the 
governor's  hatches,  or  he 's  off  somewhere.  He  's  got  some  se 
cret  business  on  some  of  the  plantations.  What  if  he  should 
think  to  turn  the  ship  into  a  slaver?  He's  scrup'lous,  I  know, 
about  privateerin'  any  more  ag'inst  the  dons,  now  that  the  king 
calls  it  piracy.  What 's  left  for  him,  but  the  slave-trade  ?" 

"  Oh,  he'd  never  think  to  dirt  his  fingers  with  that  business  !" 

"  What  else  can  he  do?  'T  would  be  a  poor  business  for  him  ; 
and  what  with  crammin'  the  hold  with  cargo,  and  starvin'  the 
negroes,  these  eastern*  people  would  beat  him  clean  out  of  sight. 
He  'd  be  for  givin'  them  niggers  room  enough,  and  air  enough, 
and  food  enough,  and  good  food  too,  and  that  would  ruin  him. 
His  niggers  would  cost  him  quite  too  much  before  they  could 
reach  the  market.  Besides,  it's  quite  too  slow  a  business  for 
us." 

"  Yes,  indeed  !     I  '11  none  of  it." 

"Nor  I.  We'll  make  shorter  cruises  in  chase  of  fortune. 
And  I  can  hardly  think,  ef  Calvert  knows  anything  about  the 
business,  that  't  would  suit  him.  Still,  it 's  curious  where  he  hides 
himself.  I  got  a  squint  of  Franks,  though — " 

"  You  did  n't  suffer  him  to  see  you  ?" 

"  Catch  me  at  that !  Belcher  I  could  n't  hear  of  any  more  than 
Calvert.  They  're  either  stowed  away  in  the  governor's  locker, 
or  they  're  at  some  secret  business  which  we  're  not  to  know 
about." 

"  May  not  Calvert  be  with  his  wife  ?" 

"  Well,  he  warn't  over  fond  of  her  company  when  he  had  the 
freedom  of  it ;  and  it 's  not  likely  he  '11  run  his  neck  into  a  halter 
for  it  now,  when  he  's  got  so  much  reason  to  keep  from  any  sort 
of  a  noose.  I  should  only  care  to  know  where  she  is  to  steer  clear 
of  him.  I  'm  more  anxious  to  find  Jack  Belcher  than  his  mas 
ter." 

"Why  him?' 

"He  knows  the  hiding-place  of  all  his  money;  and  that's 
enough  to  pay  for  a  voyage  round  the  world.  We  must  have  the 
fingerin'  of  that,  lieutenant ;  and,  look  you  now,  that 's  betwixt 
ourselves.  There  's  no  sharin  that  among  the  crew.  It 's  not 


CONSPIRACY.  301 

prize-money  ;  it 's  our  own  right,  'twixt  us,  before  the  cruise.  Be 
sides,  'twould  be  mighty  foolish  to  put  'em  in  flush,  at  the  very 
start :  they  'd  be  desarting,  half  of  'em.  And  then,  they  've  got 
quite  enough  in  the  ixpectations,  you  know ;  the  ixpectations  of  a 
Jolly  Roger  are  his  best  argyments.  In  course,  it 's  understood 
at  ween  us  that  we  goes  shares,  half-and-half,  in  the  captain's 
treasure." 

"  That  was  our  agreement." 

"  Hands  on  it,  lieutenant !" 

And  they  clasped  hands. 

"  There  can  be  no  mistake  now,"  continued  the  old  pirate. 
"  We  shall  both  have  enough  and  to  spare.  All  that  we  want 
now  is  to  get  Jack  Belcher  under  the  screw." 

"  And  where  can  he  keep  when  not  here  ?  He  was  here  three 
days  ago." 

"  He's  in  town,  I  reckon,  though  I  could  n't  find  him.  The 
captain  keeps  him  busy,  perhaps,  watchin'  over  his  harum-scarum 
wife." 

"  What !  he  watch  her  ?    He  never  watched  her  here." 

"  Did  n't  he,  then  ?  He  watched  her  as  close  as  cat  watches 
mouse.  But  Calvert  did  n't  fear  for  her.  It  was  you  he  was 
afraid  of.  He  's  too  proud  to  think  that  she  would  play  him  false  ; 
but  he 's  too  wise  not  to  know  what  hot  blood,  in  the  veins  of  a 
young  Irishman,  might  not  attempt.  Did  n't  he  surprise  you  to 
gether  in  the  cabin  ?  Do  you  suppose  he  did  n't  keep  eyes  on 
you  elsewhere  ?  !T  was  easy  for  her  to  get  out  of  the  scrape,  but 
not  so  easy  for  you." 

«  But  I  did  get  out  of  it." 

"  You  did  ?  You  're  not  out  of  it  yet !  Do  you  think  he  for 
gets  or  forgives  so  easily  ?  No,  lieutenant ;  if  I  know  man,  and 
this  man  in  particular,  you  've  got  to  pay  for  your  impudence  yet 
He  ?s  only  waitin'  his  time,  till  he  can  take  you  unawares ;  and 
you  do  n't  know  how  soon  he  '11  be  upon  you  !  Nothin'  can  save 
you  from  his  vengeance,  but  this  plan  of  ours  !  Do  you  take  the 
ship,  and  let  him  find  his  satisfaction,  after  that,  any  way  he  can." 

"  What !  do  you  think  I  'm  afraid  of  anything  he  can  do  ? 
Hark  you,  Sam ;  I  promised  not  to  seek,  or  challenge  him  to  sin 
gle  combat,  but  I  didn't  promise  that  I  would  shirk  the  fight  if 
he  should  challenge  me.  No,  by  Heaven !  I  would  never  subinu 


302  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAW  &.H. 

to  that  dishonor.    I  should  face  him,  though  I  knew  that  he  would 
slay  me  at  the  first  passage." 

"  And  hark  you,  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  I  say  to  you  that  ef  I 
should  be  at  hand,  and  I  saw  any  sich  affair  goin'  on,  I  should 
calculate  to  put  in  between  you  with  half  a  dozen  good  fellows 
besides,  and  save  you  from  any  consequences  that  might  do  up 
our  present  business." 

"  No,  Sam !  do  not,  I  entreat  you.  Should  the  captain  chal 
lenge  me,  the  point  of  honor — " 

"  Oh,  d — n  and  blast  that  p'int  of  honor !  I  thought  we  had 
settled  that  matter  already ;  and  ef  we  have  n't,  the  sooner  we  do 
come  to  the  right  sense  of  our  agreement  the  better.  You  're  to 
kill  him,  ef  you  can ;  but  not  to  fight  him  at  all !  That 's  th 
reason  !  We  want  you  ;  we  've  need  of  you  ;  we  can  't  do  with 
out  you  ;  we  like  you ;  and  blast  my  eyes,  lieutenant,  we  '11  save 
you  as  long  as  we  can  !" 

"  Why,  you  talk,  Sam,  as  if  't  were  a  certain  thing  that  I  must 
fall,  fighting  Calvert." 

"  To  be  sure  you  will !  Oh,  I  know,  lieutenant,  you  've  got 
face  and  heart  to  fight  the  devil ;  and  that 's  the  reason  why  I 
made  up  to  you,  as  the  man  to  put  us  all  right,  in  a  bold  naviga 
tion.  But,  ef  you  mean  that  you  can  stand  a  fair,  up-and-down 
fight,  with  smallsword  or  broadsword,  ag'in  Harry  Calvert,  then 
you  've  more  of  Irish  conceit  in  you  than  I  'm  willin'  you  should 
nurse  to  spoilin'.  You  can  't  do  it ;  and  the  best  thing  for  you 
and  us  is,  to  slip  cable,  and  get  the  wind  of  him  while  we  have  a 
chance.  I  'm  not  willin'  to  lose  more  time  than  we  can  help,  or 
any  valuable  life.  A  few  days  more,  I  reckon,  will  give  us  a 
chance  at  Jack  Belcher.  Ef  he  comes  here,  we  must  muzzle  him 
somewhere  in  the  woods,  and  have  his  secret  out  of  him,  though 
we  pull  out  his  tongue  with  it !  And  ef  his  master  comes,  then 
we  must  sarve  him  in  the  same  fashion.  We  've  got  nineteen 
strong  fellows  sart'in,  and  can  get  more ;  and  what  we  can  't  get, 
we  can  shut  hatches  down  upon,  and  starve  'em  into  sense,  on 
bread  and  water." 

"  What 's  to  be  done  with  Eccles  ?" 

"  He  !  We  don't  want  him,  anyhow.  He  's  a  born  simpleton. 
But  he  's  so  easy,  that,  once  out  to  sea,  I  reckon  we  can  bring 
him  to  anything." 


CONSPIRACY.  303 

"  Did  you  see  anything  of  her  —  the  captain's  wife  —  when  you 
were  in  town  ?" 

"  See  !  Did  n't  I  ?  She  was  ridin'  out  in  a  grand  coach,  with 
another  woman,  all  in  flyin'  colors,  all  the  flags  of  all  the  nations ; 
four  horses  in  silver  harness,  and  two  outriders  in  green  and  gold 
uniforms.  She  's  the  town  beauty.  I  heard  more  of  her  than  I 
can  tell  of  her :  she  's  at  all  the  balls  and  dances ;  and  they  talk 
of  her  as  a  Spanish  lady,  with  a  mint  of  money.  Sproulls  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  her.  There  was  a  dozen  young  rakes, 
most  of  'em  noblemen's  sons,  at  her  skairts  all  the  time.  What  'a 
the  best  fun  of  all,  she  passes  for  a  young,  unmarried  innocent  — 
a  senorita  somebody  —  Mountainair,  I  think  —  fresh  from  Florida  ! 
Young  Cavendish  —  a  lord,  they  say  —  is  in  turtle-fits  all  the  time 
on  her  account ;  and  there 's  more  young  lords  besides,  that  she 
keeps  in  a  sort  of  gander-heaven." 

Molyneaux  stirred  his  whiskers  fiercely  as  he  heard  this  ac 
count.  The  other  continued  —  having  his  motive  in  it,  no 
doubt : — 

"  Sproulls  p'inted  out  to  me  where  she  lived  —  with  one  Mother 
Anderson,  or  Parkins,  'twas  one  or  both  —  and  told  me  all  about 
her !  There 's  to  be  a  grand,  smashin'  party  at  her  house  on 
Thursday  night  next,  when  everybody 's  got  to  go  in  masks  and 
disguise-dresses,  after  the  French  or  Spanish  fancy.  In  town, 
they  talks  of  nothin'  else ;  and  I  reckon  they  '11  use  up,  for  the 
occasion,  all  the  fine  silks,  and  satins,  and  velvets,  that  we  've  sold 
'em.  Calvert  got  to  the  right  market  this  time,  and  helped  to 
make  it  when  he  carried  his  frisky  wife  down  there,  under  a  false 
name." 

The  effect  of  this  communication  upon  Molyneaux  was  instanta 
neous.  He  started  to  his  feet,  struck  his  forehead  sharply,  and 
strode  a  few  paces,  right  and  left,  under  the  trees.  Sam  Fowler 
seemed  somewhat  surprised  by  the  effect  he  had  produced. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  lieutenant?" 

"  When  is  that  party  to  take  place,  did  you  say,  Sam  ?" 

"  Thursday  next." 

"  Almost  a  week  off.     I  must  be  at  that  party,  Sam." 

"  How  can  you,  when  we  may  have  to  weigh  anchor  at  a  mo' 
ment's  warnin'  ?" 

"  I  care  not  for  that :  I  must  be  at  that  party.     I  must  see  Zu- 


o04  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KTAWAH. 

liemc ;   I   must  see  and  speak  with  her.     Everything  depends 
upon  it." 

Sam  expostulated.  He  had  overshot  his  mark.  Whatever 
his  real  object,  he  had  not  calculated  on  such  an  effect  from  his 
communication.  He  now,  earnestly  enough,  endeavored  to  dis 
suade  his  hot-headed  ally  from  his  purpose  ;  but  in  vain.  Never 
was  Celt  more  doggedly  determined. 

"I  will  go,  if  all  the  devils  in  h — 1  stand  against  me  !  Don't 
think  to  dissuade  me,  Sam.  I  have  submitted  to  you  in  every 
thing  ;  but  I  '11  be  d d  if  I  submit  in  this  !  I  will  see  her." 

"  But  how  will  you  get  there  ?  At  these  parties,  they  ax  you 
for  your  tickets.  There  's  an  invitation  and  a  ticket ;  and  where 
are  you  to  get  one  ?" 

"  Ticket !  as  if  any  of  their  nigger-servants  could  stop  me  eu 
tering  a  lady's  parlor !     They  won't  try  it.     They  're  not  very 
strict  at  these  parties ;  and  when  they  see  a  fellow  well  dressed, 
presenting  himself  boldly,  they  take  some  things  for  granted." 

"  Yes  ;  but  when  supper-time  comes,  you  've  got  to  unmask." 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do  n't  stay  for  supper !  Do  n't  you  be  afraid, 
Sam  :  I  've  the  he-ad  for  any  situation." 

"  Ef  you  do  n't  get  your  head  into  sich  a  sitiation  as  will  make 
it  hard  to  get  it  out  ag'in  !" 

"  I  '11  take  the  risk." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,  down  to  the  city  at  least,  and  have  the  boat 
ready  for  anything  that  happens,"  was  the  conclusion  of  Sam, 
finally  giving  up  the  contest.  Molyneaux  was  no  longer  to  be 
reasoned  with,  and  the  old  sea-dog  was  disposed  to  make  the  most 
of  a  difficult  customer. 

"  I  '11  go  with  you  ;  but  a  week  of  waitin' !  And  how  if  Cal- 
vert  comes  up  in  the  meantime,  and  orders  us  to  weigh  anchor  ?" 

"  Then  muzzle  him,  as  you  propose !  Once  in  the  hold  of  the 
vessel,  hatches  close,  what 's  to  prevent  us  doing  what  we  please  ?'' 

"  It  may  be  done  —  must  be  done,  if  it  comes  to  the  worst  j  but 
we  may  have  to  fight  for  it.  Remember,  we  've  got  only  nine 
teen  of  the  fellows  dead  sure.' 

"  We  must  do  what 's  needful.  If  he  forces  us  to  the  worst, 
his  blood  be  upon  his  own  head !  And  Zulieme  I  will  see !  I 
will  know  from  herself  what  she  feels." 

"  And  ef  she  grins  at  you,  like  a  monkey  on  a  high  tree  ?" 


CONSPIRACY.  305 

"  Then  I  seize  if  I  can,  and  plead  no  longer !  It  will  be  easy 
enough  to  carry  her  off." 

"  Ef  you  can  get  at  her  !  and  that 's  easy,  ef  you  do  n't  give 
her  a  scare  beforehand.  'T  won't  be  hard  to  get  her  out  in  the 
dusk,  with  some  message  from  Calvert." 

"  True,  true !  we  must  arrange  all  that.  I  will  have  her,  by 
all  the  devils !" 

The  conference  pretty  much  closed  here  for  the  night.  The 
two  conspirators  returned  severally  to  the  vessel,  Molyneaux 
being  last. 


30()  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

WOODS    HAVE    EARS. 

"There 's  a  destiny  in  life, 


That  still  denies  all  certainty  to  Crime, 

And  makes  its  nature  mortal  !     Be  as  sure 

As  Cunning  —  that  base  wisdom  of  the  snake  — 

Can  make  thy  infidelity  and  falsehood, 

And  still  the  Ithuriel  spear  of  Truth  will  pierce 

Thy  meshes,  and  the  crevice  in  thy  armor, 

When  least  thou  thinkest  of  Fate  !"  —  Old  Play. 

THE  forest  was  once  more  silent,  still  as  death  —  a  solemn 
silence  which  seems  to  overawe  Nature,  and  check  her  most  cour 
ageous  breathings.  The  conspirators  were  gone,  and  by  this  time 
probably  were  all  housed  safely,  and  in  their  several  hammocks, 
in  the  Happy-go-Lucky,  that  smart  rover,  over  which  they  de 
signed  to  spread  the  ominous  standard  of  the  "Jolly  Roger." 

But  the  silence  was  for  a  few  moments  only  The  thicket 
which  they  had  so  recently  occupied,  was  anon  conscious  of  new 
parties  upon  the  scene,  in  the  persons  of  two  other  men  who  came 
out  from  yet  deeper  hiding-places  in  the  rear.  There  they  had 
evidently  lain  perdu,  and  in  a  situation  which  enabled  them  to 
take  in  all  the  particulars  which  we  have  related.  One  of  the 
last-comers  now  spoke,  in  low  but  deep  accents,  the  tones  of 
which  were  significant  of  greatly-aroused  and  very  painful  emo 
tions  : — 

"  Great  God  of  heaven  I  is  it  possible  that  I  have  heard  all 
this  ?" 

The  voice  was  that  of  our  rover  himself,  Captain  Calvert.  The 
voice  which  answered  him  was  that  of  one  who  has  hitherto  been 
unknown  to  us. 


WOODS    HAVE   EARS.  307 

"  I  reckon,  captain,  you  are  now  satisfied  that  I  told  you  no 
more  than  the  truth/' 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  could  believe  otherwise,  Bill  Hazard ! 
I  would  give  a  thousand  pounds  could  I  convict  you  of  false 
hood." 

"  That  you  will  never  do,  captain.  Your  own  ears  are  the  very 
witnesses  I  wanted.  I  knew  it  must  reach  you  at  last,  for  this  is 
the  place  they  meet  in  nightly.  You  have  heard  all  I  have  been 
telling  you  for  more  than  two  weeks,  and  something  more  I  reck 
on  ;  and  I  'm  glad  you  Ve  heard  for  yourself;  for  it  *s  not  easy  to 
believe  in  such  villany,  in  men  we  've  been  trusting  so  long,  upon 
any  evidence  short  of  one's  own  senses." 

"  Verily,  it  is  not !  Yet  do  me  justice,  Hazard,  and  remember 
that  I  have  always  held  you  faithful  and  honest  in  what  you  said. 
It  was  rather  a  hope  with  me  that  you  had  been  deceived,  than  a 
doubt  that  you  were  honest.  I  am  now  satisfied,  however  pain 
fully,  that  you  have  spoken  nothing  but  the  truth.  Belcher  en 
tertained  his  suspicions,  not  to  the  same  degree  with  you,  but  I 
would  not  hear  him.  Yours  is  evidence ;  and  it  is  now  mine. 
All  his  suspicions.,  and  your  statements,  have  been  confirmed  by 
my  own  senses." 

"  You  know  all  the  parties,  captain  ?" 

"  No !  I  am  not  sure  of  some  two  or  three  of  the  common  sea 
men.  Of  course,  I  know  the  voices  of  Molyneaux  and  Fowler, 
and  I  have  my  guesses  at  some  of  the  rest.  Some  of  the  names 
were  also  spoken.  There  were  Fowler,  Stoddart,  Jordan,  Rol 
lins,  and — " 

"Pearson  and  Gibbes,"  answered  the  other,  concluding  the 
sentence. 

"  But  all  these  were  not  present.  They  were  only  named  by 
the  others,  as  sure." 

"  And  they  are  sure,  sir !  These  are  the  very  rascals  of  the 
ship." 

"  It  may  be !  Yet  the  best  of  men  may  be  involved  by  a  mis 
representation." 

"  That  is  true,  sir ;  and  we  might  doubt,  if  we  had  reason  to 
suppose  that  Molyneaux  and  Fowler  could  fancy  that  they  were 
overheard.  But  they  did  not,  that  is  certain ;  and  these  fellows 
are  jusl  as  guilty  as  the  rest." 


308  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Not  exactly.  Some  men  are  rogues  through  feebleness.  A 
strong  will,  in  one  villain,  subdues  to  villany  the  feebler  nature,  in 
the  absence  of  any  better  authority.  We  may  hang  a  miserable 
wretch  for  crime  to-day,  whom  a  few  hours  of  time,  under  a  good 
master,  would  make  a  worthy  citizen.  At  all  events,  Hazard, 
there  must  be  no  doubt  of  the  persons  in  the  movement,  when 
they  are  required  to  pay  the  penalty  of  their  crimes.  We  must 
have  all  that  right,  and  even  then,  there  will  be  cases,  in  respect 
to  whom  Justice  must  take  some  hints  from  Mercy." 

"  That 's  for  you  to  say,  captain.  Yet,  it 's  just  as  well  to  have 
your  rope  round  about  the  man  you  mean  to  pardon,  the  same  as 
him  you  mean  to  hang ;  you  've  got  the  first  list  I  gave  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  there  are  additions  to  be  made  to  it.  These  you 
can  furnish  me  to-morrow  night." 

"You  don't  forget,  captain,  as  I  told  you,  that  I  had  to  mix  a 
little  in  this  business  myself,  before  I  could  get  to  see  so  far." 

"  I  remember  all,  Hazard." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  needn't  say,  captain,  after  what  you've 
heard  yourself,  that  what's  to  be  done  you'll  have  to  do  quickly. 
You  see  they  're  pretty  hot  on  the  scent.  You  've  got  to  make 
quick  preparations  as  well  as  strong  ones." 

"  It  will  need  little  time.  I  am  already  in  part  prepared  for 
the  emergency ;  for,  though  unwilling  to  believe  in  all  that  Bel 
cher  and  yourself  told  me,  I  yet  felt  that  every  precaution  was 
necessary,  and  I  have  not  neglected  the  affair.  We  shall  be  ready 
for  these  wretches." 

"  I'm  glad,  captain,  for  I  was  beginning  to  get  quite  scary." 

"  Have  you  found  out  where  Eccles  is  ?" 

"No,  sir.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  against  him,  excep* 
he's  too  blind  to  many  things  that  he  ought  to  see.  He's  thick 
headed,  sir." 

"  He's  weak.  And  you  note  that  Fowler  and  Molyneaux  both 
count  upon  his  weakness,  to  render  him  willing,  when  once  they  've 
played  their  game ;  and  perhaps  they  are  right." 

"  I  think  so.  So  far,  I  think  him  only  easy  and  blind,  and  no* 
criminal." 

"  We  shall  interpose  in  time  for  his  safety." 

"  But  that  visit  of  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  and  Fowler  to  tha 
town,  sir?  Won't  that  be  apt  to  give  you  some  trouble?" 


WOODS   HAVE   EARS.  809 

"  I  think  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  see  in  it  a  new  opportunity 
for  effecting  my  objects  with  more  certainty,  and  perhaps  safety. 
These  details  do  not  make  me  anxious,  Hazard.  The  mere  dan 
ger  and  difficulty  to  myself  constitute  the  least  part  of  my  anxiety. 
But,  great  God  !  to  think  that  I  have  trained  so  many  of  these 
wretches  for  such  a  life  as  they  deliberately  propose  to  lead  !  — 
that  the  flag  of  Britain,  through  my  agency,  has  prepared  them 
for  running  up  the  black  and  bloody  ensign  of  piracy !  Have  I, 
in  truth,  under  the  roving  commission  which  has  seemed  to  me 
hitherto  a  sufficient  guaranty,  been  tutoring  these  miserable  crea 
tures  for  a  life  of  license ;  for  the  flinging  off  all  law,  social  and 
divine ;  loosening  the  ties  of  morals,  with  the  bonds  of  nations, 
and  making  the  transition  easy  from  the  privateer  to  the  pi 
rate  !" 

"  Don't  trouble  your  mind  with  such  a  notion,  captain  !  You  've 
done  nothing  of  the  kind.  This  fellow,  Sam  Fowler,  is  an  old 
buccaneer.  He  has  twice  accepted  the  king's  mercy,  and  escaped 
the  penalties  of  former  crime  only  by  doing  so  at  the  last  mo 
ment.  But  the  black  blood  hasn't  been,  and  couldn't  be,  purged 
out  by  a  king's  pardon.  He's  so  thoroughly  a  pirate  by  habit, 
that,  put  him  wherever  you  please  —  in  the  regular  service  even 
—  and  he'd  be  at  his  bloody  tricks  again  in  no  time,  and  with  the 
first  easy  opportunity.  And  there  are  two  others  of  these  chaps 
who  are  just  like  him  —  old  pirates  —  regular  'scape-gallowses  — 
sworn  brothers  of  the  coast,  and  most  unredeemable  villains." 

"  Who  are  they  ?" 

"  Pearson  and  Gibbes." 

"  I  will  remember  them.  We  must  try  and  discriminate  be 
tween  the  ringleaders  and  the  miserable  wretches  whom  they 
beguile.  Of  this  be  sure,  William  Hazard :  the  flag  of  Britain, 
while  I  breathe,  shall  never  give  place,  on  that  vessel,  to  the  Jolly 
Roger!  No;  there  shall  be  one  head  low  —  one  heart  shall  be 
cold  for  ever — ere  your  eyes  shall  see  that  spectacle !" 

"  God  be  with  you  and  help  you,  captain  !"  exclaimed  the  other, 
fervently. 

"And  that  vain  young  Irish  blockhead!  to  be  so  easily  won, 
so  readily  deluded,  in  spite  of  my  warnings,  my  painstaking  and 
forbearance,  and  by  that  evil-eyed,  miserable,  hoary-headed  old 
ruffian !  And  through  what  snare  ?  Not  gold  ;  he  has  enough 


310  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

of  that:  but  through  lust,  and  hate,  and  envy  —  all  these  the  chil« 
dren  of  a  mere  vanity!  —  that  bubble  passion,  the  first-born  with 
us,  the  last  to  die  out  of  our  bosoms,  which  absorbs  and  uses  all 
other  passions !" 

"It's  mighty  strong  in  his  bosom,  sir." 

"  Light  head,  vaporous  brain,  vain,  vicious  heart.  And  he 
would  cross  weapons  with  me  !  The  *  point  of  honor' !  Honor  ! 
honor !  What  a  word  to  be  used  upon  a  dog's  tongue  !  Fool ! 
fool !  But  he  shall  have  the  privilege  he  craves.  His  wish  shall 
be  indulged,  and  let  the  fatal  sisters  watch  the  issue  from  the 
clouds." 

"You  don't  mean,  sir,  that  you  will  fight  with  such  as  he?" 

"  Will  I  not !  Yes,  boy,  in  such  a  case  I  waive  pride,  charac 
ter,  authority,  all  things  upon  which,  in  ordinary  cases,  I  should 
insist.  I  mean  to  fight  with  him,  point  to  point,  though  he  bring 
a  score  of  bloodhounds  at  his  back.  I  will  make  him  feel  that  I 
am  his  master.  I  rejoice  that  he  broods  with  this  desire.  It 
somewhat  accords  with  my  own.  He  has  been  an  offender  in 
other  respects,  boy,  than  those  which  you  report.  But  of  this  I 
shall  say  naught.  Enough  that  he  shall  have  his  wish ;  and  let 
his  skill  and  spirit  maintain  his  vanity,  if  they  can !" 

Calvert  almost  forgot  the  presence  of  his  follower,  in  the  utter 
ance  of  his  passionate  speech ;  but  he  soon  recalled  his  thoughts, 
bringing  them,  by  a  strong  effort  of  will,  from  vehemence  to  sub 
jection  : — 

"And  now,  Will  Hazard,  my  good  boy,  keep  up  your  watch, 
as  well  and  faithfully  as  you  have  done  thus  far.  Note  the  de 
parture  of  the  boat,  with  Molyneaux  and  Fowler ;  and,  just  so 
soon  as  they  are  out  of  sight,  get  off  with  five  fellows  whom  you 
can  trust.  Let  the  men  be  well  armed  with  cutlasses  and  pistols. 
Cross  the  river  to  the  other  shore,  and  creep  down  in  the  shad 
ows  till  you  reach  the  five  old  oaks,  at  the  bend  of  Accabee. 
Belcher,  or  Franks,  will  meet  you  there.  Should  I  arrange  any 
thing  better  in  the  meantime,  you  shall  hear  from  me,  at  this 
place.  Fortunately,  you  have  time  enough.  There  are  five  days 
before  this  masquerade.  Masquerade  !  More  fools  !  It  is  per 
haps  fortunate  that  there  are  more  fools  —  that  we  have  this  mas 
querade.  It  gives  us  time.  The  rogues  will  not  attempt  any 
thing  till  this  folly's  over.  So,  watch,  my  good  boy,  and  be  in 


WOODS    HAVE    EARS.  311 

readiness.  You  know  what  I  require,  Away,  now,  to  the  ship  ! 
You  can  enter  it  in  safety  ?" 

"  With  the  next  change  of  watch,  sir." 

"  Do  so,  then.  Fear  nothing ;  I  shall  neither  fail  you  nor  these 
people.  Something  I  have  to  digest  before  I  decide  upon  the 
game  to  play.  But  I  will  not  leave  you  uninformed.  Be  sure, 
at  all  events,  that  I  shall  be  ready  for  them.  Neither  head  nor 
hand  can  fail  me  now.  Be  patient,  and  steer  prudently,  as  be 
fore.  You  shall  have  my  signal  in  proper  season.  Go,  now, 
boy;  you  have  done  well  —  worthily  —  as  few  older  men  could 
do.  I  shall  remember  you  as  you  deserve." 

And  the  other,  Will  Hazard,  went  away  as  bidden.  And  the 
outlawed  rover  stood  alone  in  the  depth  and  midnight  shadow  of 
that  Indian  forest,  his  eyes  straining  through  the  solid  thickness 
of  the  woods,  and  the  almost  solid  density  of  the  night,  in  the 
direction  of  the  ship,  which  he  could  not  see. 

"  What  a  man's  soul  is  in  that  boy !"  was  his  exclamation. 

And  well,  indeed,  might  he  make  it.  Will  Hazard  was  but 
eighteen,  a  slim  English  lad,  with  fair  face  and  bright  blue  eyes 
and  a  cheery,  laughing  spirit,  whom  no  one  would  suspect  of  hero 
ism  or  conspiracy.  Yet,  had  he  been  tempted  by  the  latter,  and, 
in  a  simple,  almost  unconscious  matter,  was  proving  himself  capa 
ble  of  the  former.  Such  is  the  modest  material  of  which  Nature 
makes  proper  men. 

But  the  thought  of  the  boy  gave  place,  in  the  mind  of  the  ro 
ver,  to  the  stronger  impression  made  by  the  conspirators ;  and  he 
again  spoke,  though  now  in  soliloquy,  of  the  vexing  trouble  which 
was  most  his  care  : — 

"  O  fools !  blind  fools  !"  he  muttered,  shaking  his  hand  still  in 
the  direction  of  the  ship  —  "0  fools  !  as  monstrous  in  stupidity 
as  in  crime  !  Do  you  think  me  a  dullard,  an  imbecile?  Ye  shall, 
feel  me.  I  forebore  ye,  and  hoped  —  nay,  might  have  prayed  for 
ye,  but  that  I  had  as  little  faith  in  my  prayers  as  in  your  virtue ! 
But  ye  have  reached  the  length  of  your  tether — the  term  of 
your  insolence  and  my  forbearance.  Ye  shall  soon  know  me  as 
your  judge  !" 

And  again  he  waved  his  hand  in  air,  slowly  and  solemnly,  as 
denouncing  judgment. 

(<  Ye  tan  not  persuade  me  now  !     Ye  are  doomed!" 


312  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

So  speaking,  lie  turned  his  back  upon  the  scene,  and  strode  to 
the  spot  where  his  steed  was  fastened ;  and  while  he  tightened 
the  girth  about  the  beast,  he  murmured  unconsciously : — 

"  It  has  come  upon  me  sooner  than  I  thought,  but  not  wholly 
unexpected.  It  has  spread  farther  than  I  feared,  but  not  too  far 
for  arrest.  I  have  been  too  confident  of  this  people,  too  heedless 
of  my  own  duty.  But  this  shall  be  done.  Alas !  look  which  way 
I  will,  I  see  that  I  have  lived  in  vain  ! 

"And  this  painful  watch  by  day  and  night  —  it  profits  me 
nothing.  How  should  it  profit  ?  What  can  it  bring,  but  the  con 
firmation  of  a  great  agony,  and  the  certainty  of  all  its  stings  ? 

"  And  yet  I  have  not  the  courage  to  forbear  the  watch  whose 
discoveries  must  still  be  wo !  Would  to  God  that  the  struggle 
were  all  over !  —  every  struggle  —  all  at  once  —  in  one  mighty 
convulsion  —  one  hurricane  rage  —  in  which  the  good  ship  goes 
down  in  the  overwhelming  shock,  and  the  waves  settle  over  her 
in  placid  supremacy.  I  have  spread  sail,  surely,  only  for  such  a 
fate !" 

And  a  bitter  groan  escaped  him  at  the  close.  And,  with  a  sort 
of  desperation,  he  threw  himself  upon  his  steed ;  and  it  was  only 
after  several  irregular  bounds,  under  the  fierce  pricking  of  his 
spur,  which  bore  him  into  deeper  thickets,  that  he  was  taught  the 
wiser  policy  to  prick  his  way  rather  than  the  beast.  His  own 
impatience  gave  him  no  succor,  in  the  effort  to  dissipate  his  griefs 
in  the  headlong  violence  of  his  pace. 


PETTY   REVENGES,  318 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

PETTY   REVENGES. 

"Methinks  I  wander  in  an  atmosphere 
All  rank  with  treachery.     There  is  in  the  air 
A  wooing,  silent  mischief,  which  prevails 
O'er  the  too  languid  nature,  and  will  glide 
Subtly,  to  feeble  and  too  gentle  natures, 
Until  they  seize  upon  the  citadel, 
And  blight  the  soul  with  death  !" —  Old  Play. 

WE  are  apt  to  speak  of  reason  as  the  distinguishing  attribute 
of  man,  and  to  prattle,  with  wondrous  self-complacency,  upon  its 
dignity  and  grandeur.  Yet  how  do  we  use  it?  Not  one  in  a 
hundred  of  those  who  thus  pride  themselves,  and  prattle,  ever 
employ  it  with  any  due  regard  to  the  superior  interests  of  im 
mortality,  or  even  of  a  considerate  and  becoming  humanity. 
We  use  it  rather  as  a  drudge  —  a  dog,  with  which  we  hunt  down 
the  game  that  is  started  by  our  fancies  or  our  passions  —  and  in 
this  we  exhibit  ourselves  as  children  only ;  our  toys  and  sports 
being  scarcely  a  whit  more  dignified  than  those  of  children,  and 
only  more  imposing,  in  our  sight,  as  involving  the  exercise  of  in- 
tenser  passions,  which  are  far  less  innocent  than  those  which  be 
guile  the  boy. 

Here,  for  example,  in  this  our  true  story  of  real  life,  we  are 
made  acquainted  with  no  small  variety  of  persons  —  scarcely  one 
of  whom,  in  the  ordinary  estimates  of  society,  would  be  called  a 
blockhead.  For  that  matter,  a  pioneer  people  never  can  be  block 
heads.  Here  is  Molyneaux,  who  considers  himself  a  monstrous 
clever  fellow,  exceedingly  smart  and  well-appointed  in  his  wits. 
Ask  him,  and,  if  he  answers  honestly,  and  without  allowing  his 
habitual  modesty  to  interfere  in  the  delivery  of  his  response,  he 
will  tell  you  that  no  man  was  ever  more  adequately  endowed,  of 

14 


?H  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

trained,  than  himself,  for  the  greater  variety  of  human  and  social 
achievements. 

Ask  those  about  him,  and  they  will  so  far  confirm  his  opinion 
of  himself,  as  to  assure  you  that  there  never  was  a  better  seaman ; 
that  he  is  bold,  vigorous,  well-skilled  in  his  weapon  ;  a  good  leaper, 
runner,  boxer ;  as  able  to  lift  a  clever  boat  out  of  shoal  water  as 
any  officer  on  the  coast;  and,  when  he  talks,  that  he  says  deuied 
smart  things  in  a  smart  manner  of  his  own. 

He  is  evidently  regarded  by  all  about  him  as  a  person  much 
above  the  ordinary  standard  of  human  intellect ;  and  hence  we 
find  him  *  second  officer  of  the  ship;  and,  further,  that  a  certain 
number  of  the  ship's  company  are  resolved  to  make  him  first  offi 
cer,  regarding  his  claims  as  superior  to  his  present  position. 

Yet,  with  all  this,  we  see  that  the  fellow  is  a  blockhead ;  that 
he  is  using  his  wits,  much  or  little,  in  such  a  fashion  as  will  prob 
ably  get  him  knocked  on  the  head,  with  a  reasonable  prospect 
that  the  brains  will  be  so  scattered,  after  such  an  event,  as  to  be 
of  little  future  service  to  their  present  owner  or  to  anybody  else. 
And  yet  he  uses  his  reason  daily ;  and  prides  himself  upon  the 
wonderful  sagacity  with  which  he  shapes  his  course,  so  that  his 
aims  shall  be  duly  seconded  quite  as  much  by  his  prudence  as  by 
enterprise  and  thought. 

But  the  abuse  of  his  reason  lies  first  in  his  aims.  You  see  that 
his  reasoning  faculties  are  under  bond  wholly  to  his  vanity;  and, 
let  him  reason  however  cunningly,  the  first  step  which  he  has 
taken  is  fatal  to  the  integrity  of  that  very  reason  which  he  sup 
poses  to  be  eminently  employed  all  the  time. 

The  reason  which  we  employ  to  make  the  wrong  appear  the 
right,  or  to  enable  us  to  do  wrong,  is  no  longer  a  faculty  to  be 
relied  on.  Commencing  with  a  lie,  all  its  argument,  thus  basely 
founded,  must  be  false,  though  it  may  be  logical  in  the  last  degree, 
if  its  first  assumption  of  policy  be  recognised.  We  have  but  to 
slur  over  the  premise,  and  we  shall  see  no  flaw  in  the  logical 
progress,  step  by  step,  to  the  inevitable  conclusion :  but  the 
fraud  with  which  we  begin,  and  with  which  we  subject  reason  to 
the  uses  of  a  passion,  corrupts  the  entire  case ;  and  we  have  no 
more  real  benefit  from  this  most  precious  human  faculty  than  if 
we  were  so  many  brute  beasts,  to  whom  all  such  endowment  is 
supposed  to  be  denied. 


PETTY   REVENGES.  315 

And  so  with  all  those  whose  wilful,  wicked,  or  frivolous  pas 
sions,  coerce  the  Reason  into  a  mere  slave,  carrying  out  the  be 
hests  of  a  master ;  the  Kislar  Aga  of  the  seraglio ;  the  hound 
that  hunts  for  us  the  game  which  our  lusts  and  appetites,  our  vani 
ties  and  ridiculous  ambitions,  are  perpetually  starting.  Moly- 
neaux,  but  for  his  absurd  vanity,  would  be  no  fool  —  would  have 
a  very  fair  share  of  the  reasoning  faculty  —  and  would  probably 
escape  the  summary  processes  which  now  threaten  the  health  and 
safety,  the  integrity  and  soundness,  of  a  moderately-developed 
cranium,  with  a  very  decent  filling  up  of  brains. 

You  may  argue  out  the  case,  under  the  suggestions  above  given, 
with  respect  to  the  greater  number  of  our  dramatis  personce  ;  and 
you  need  not  confine  the  application  to  the  persons  of  our  drama. 
Take  the  great  farce  of  Society  —  tragedy  or  farce  —  they  but  too 
frequently  mean  the  same  thing  —  and,  of  all  the  performing  char 
acters,  you  find  only  here  and  there  a  single  person  who  uses  hia 
reason  with  respectful  deference,  and  does  not  tax  its  exercise  in 
the  service  of  a  mere  passion,  having  its  premises  arbitrarily  re 
solved  upon,  and  looking  only  to  foregone  desires  for  its  conclu 
sions.  One's  vanity,  as  in  the  case  of  Molyneaux,  is  the  grand 
passion  ;  another's,  avarice  ;  another's,  lust ;  another's,  gluttony  ; 
and  so  on,  through  the  whole  census.  The  passions,  using  reason 
as  a  tool,  cut  the  throat  of  human  wisdom. 

So  our  Harry  Calvert ;  so  our  cassique,  his  brother ;  so  the 
courtly  Robert  Quarry,  governor  of  the  colony ;  and  so  the  piou? 
Master  Sylvester,  alias  Stillwater :  all  of  these,  running  as  deep  a? 
their  waters  may,  and  exercising  whatever  amount  you  please  of 
the  reasoning  faculty,  have  somehow,  through  some  fraudful  or 
debilitating  passion,  denuded  the  cogitating  faculty  of  its  best  vir 
tues  at  the  very  outset ;  and  now  keep  it  busy,  wandering  in  a 
circle,  and  in  movements  not  half  the  time  so  graceful,  though 
quite  as  erratic,  as  those  of  your  tabby,  who  will  suddenly  dart 
away  from  her  comfortable  couch  upon  the  hearth-rug,  and  put 
herself  into  fever-heat,  in  the  very  intellectual  chase  after  —  her 
own  tail ! 

And  we  must  not  forget  the  tender  sex,  in. their  assertion  of  the 
right  to  abuse  the  virtues  of  this  faculty.  They,  too,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  have  a  reason  for  all  their  follies.  Take,  for  example, 
the  case  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  We  have  shown  you  that 


316  THE   OASSIQUE   OF   KIAW4H. 

she  is  a  smart  woman  as  well  as  a  fine  one.  She  is  clever,  quick 
has  wit,  sentiment,  and  a  sort  of  philosophy  —  which  serves,  al 
least,  to  disguise  a  passion  of  very  doubtful  quality  so  dextrously, 
that  it  passes  current  as  a  virtue  among  half  of  the  fashionable 
circle  in  which  she  moves  and  has  her  being.  Ask  herself,  or  her 
neighbors,  who  is  the  cleverest  woman  in  town,  and  you  are  told, 
"  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  undoubtedly !"  She  lives  well,  talks 
well,  dresses  well,  dances  well,  and  so  lives  as  never  to  tax  offen 
sively  or  in  any  way  inconveniently  the  community  in  which  she 
resides.  This  is  a  great  virtue  in  society.  There  is  not  a  mem 
ber  of  her  circle,  not  one  of  those  persons  who  claim  to  be  "  in 
society,"  who  has  the  slightest  apprehension  that  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson  will  ever  need  their  assistance  in  anything.  If  they 
could  fancy,  for  a  moment,  that  she  was  in  straits  for  money,  they 
would  not  consider  her  half  so  intellectual.  Of  course,  were  sha 
to  ask  for  succor,  they  would  instinctively  regard  her  as  a  person 
who  had  lost  her  senses.  Having  no  such  dreadful  apprehensions 
of  danger  in  this  respect,  either  to  her  or  to  themselves,  they 
gladly  attend  her  parties ;  they  vote  her  a  trump  among  court 
cards  and  courtly  circles ;  admire  the  magnificence  with  which 
she  provides,  the  taste  with  which  she  presides,  and  the  fine  judg 
ment  which  enables  her  to  select  her  guests  with  such  discrimina 
tion  as  to  prompt  each  individual  thus  honored  to  recognise  the 
propriety  of  her  preference  —  in  his  own  case,  at  least! 

But  we  have  seen,  as  well  as  Harry  Calvert,  that  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson  is  still  veritably  a  fool  of  the  first  water.  Let  us  not 
be  too  particular  in  describing  the  passion  or  passions  —  for  there 
are  several  busy  in  her  case  —  which  keep  her  reason  (excellent 
as  the  world  esteems  it)  in  bondage  to  a  lie !  Enough  that  we 
say  she  has  not  common  sense  sufficient  to  let  her  prosperity  be 
sure.  She  is  in  excellent  worldly  condition  ;  has  an  accommoda 
ting  husband,  who  provides  for  her  magnificently,  yet  never  trou 
bles  her  to  entertain  him ;  yet  she  will  not  let  herself  alone  !  She 
desires  to  make  a  conquest  of  Harry  Calvert.  You,  perhaps, 
fancy  that  she  loves  him.  Don't  make  yourself  ridiculous  by 
such  a  notion.  She  has  not  a  bit  more  love  for  him  than  for 
Perkins  Anderson,  though  he  may  better  please  her  tastes.  But 
she  is  wealthy  and  idle-minded ;  and  all  persons  in  this  condition 
must  exercise  their  brains  in  some  way,  and  in  the  provocations 


PETTY   REVENGES.  317 

of  some  petty  passion.  She  fancies  that  she  loves  him,  possibly; 
but  the  truth  is,  that,  she  desires  to  make  a  conquest.  The  desire 
is  stimulated  by  her  vanity.  This  is  one  of  the  weak  points  of 
the  sex,  and  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  in  particular.  Even  as 
the  young  damsel,  just  rising  into  seventeen,  fancies  that  she  is 
an  outcast  and  desolate,  unless  there  be  some  youth,  with  newly- 
budding  mustache,  bobbing  about  her,  as  a  cork,  with  a  feather  in 
it,  bobs  along  a  trout-stream  ;  so  these  old  girls,  with  nothing  to 
do,  continue  to  long  for  similar  bobs :  though  the  period  may  have 
long  since  passed  away  when  the  tenderness  of  the  trout  makes  it 
acceptable  on  the  table  of  the  epicure.  With  idle  women  this 
becomes  the  whole  passion  of  life  —  a  passion  of  blended  vanity 
and  appetite ;  and  this  is  precisely  the  case  with  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson.  She  will  waste  her  smiles  and  sighs  —  nay,  her  cares 
ses —  on  Harry  Calvert;  but  if  Harry  will  not  suffer  himself  to 
be  caressed,  she  will  condescend  to  Dick  or  Peter.  She  must 
restlessly  wriggle  on,  in  the  hope  of  being  precious  to  somebody. 
It  is  a  part  of  her  capital,  in  the  society  which  she  prefers,  to  be 
recognised  as  an  object  still  of  a  most  passionate  attachment. 
This  is  so  much  food  for  that  vanity  which  lacks  all  pretence  of 
honest  passion ;  and,  for  such  persons,  a  mere  flirtation  will  suf 
fice  —  flirtation  being  a  sort  of  moral  prostitution  which  only  lacks 
sufficient  courage  to  be  criminal.  Not  that  Mrs.  Anderson  will 
not  fall,  and  sufficiently  low  too,  if  properly  seconded.  But  she 
does  not  contemplate  extreme  cases.  She  is  not  too  moral  for  sur 
render,  if  vigorously  assailed ;  but  she  will  content  herself,  if  suf 
fered  to  do  so,  with  the  small  excitements  of  the  flirtation. 

Enough  !  a  flirting  fool  at  forty  is  sufficiently  ridiculous,  with 
out  needing  comment.  Harry  Calvert  knew  her  thoroughly,  and 
was  not  to  be  deluded  by  her  sentimentality.  He,  however,  com 
mitted  one  error  —  that  of  piquing  her  vanity  by  his  disregard  of 
her  blandishments.  Women  do  not  readily  forgive  such  an  of 
fence.  It  equally  mortifies  vanity  and  self-esteem.  The  one  is 
stung,  the  other  humbled. 

No  doubt  Calvert  felt  that  this  was  his  danger.  He  knew  the 
sex ;  few  men  better.  He  knew  her ;  and  he  felt  that  to  yield, 
but  a  single  hair,  and  he  must  have  laid  his  head  in  her  lap  —  an 
other  Samson  in  the  embrace  of  a  new  Delilah.  He  was  too  ear- 
nest  a  man  to  trifle  in  a  flirtation.  He  was  one  of  those  persons 


318  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

who,  in  affaires  de  coeur,  are  apt  to  proceed  as  the  lion  is  said  to 
do  when  he  woos  his  bride  !  He  knew  very  well  that  the  lady  had 
no  passion  at  work  more  profound  than  her  vanity,  and  he  was 
not  willing  to  engage  in  a  traffic  of  the  passions  at  too  much  cost 
to  his  own.  His  passions  were  all  terribly  intense  ones  ;  he  knew 
not  how  to  trifle  with  them.  Besides,  they  were  all  absorbed  in 
one,  and  that  was  hallowed !  Over  its  fortunes  there  hung  the 
gloom  of  defeat,  disappointment,  death  perhaps ;  the  storm  ;  the 
wreck ;  the  convulsion ;  and  an  agony  such  as  would  have  been 
only  mocked  by  such  a  feeble  sort  of  passion  as  worked  in  the 
bosom  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  !  He  knew  that  she  could  sigh, 
and  sigh,  and  yet  feel  no  pain.  Sighing  with  her  was  only  a 
pleasant  accomplishment ;  and,  when  she  spoke  of  her  heart's  dis 
appointments,  he  had  only  to  look  at  her  and  smile.  Certainly 
Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  in  most  excellent  physique.  Well 
preserved,  she  had  reached  that  condition  of  embonpoint  which 
converts  a  wrinkle  into  a  ridge,  and  maintains  such  an  adequate 
degree  of  red  upon  the  cheeks  as  to  render  quite  unnecessary  any 
resort  to  Parisian  chemicals.  He  felt  that  she  would  survive  any 
defeat  of  hope  and  heart ;  that  her  affections  were  scarcely  skin- 
deep  ;  and,  though  he  scrupulously  forebore  to  exhibit  his  fullest 
consciousness  of  her  case  —  forebore  to  wound  and  mortify  unne 
cessarily  by  tone,  word,  or  look  —  he  yet  did  not  hesitate  to  fling 
her  off  and  deny.  He  fancied  that  he  had  done  this  too  gently 
to  offend ;  but  he  did  not  the  less  pique  and  disappoint.  That  she 
felt  the  pique  we  shall  see  hereafter. 

She  felt  it,  and  her  vanity  brought  another  passion  into  activity. 
It  was,  however,  rather  an  instinct,  than  a  thought  or  passion, 
which  led  her  to  conceive  a  purpose  of  revenge.  The  agent  to  be 
used  for  this  purpose  was  no  other  than  our  poor  little  giddy-pated 
Zulieme  Calvert,  otherwise  known  (but  only  while  in  Charleston) 
as  the  Senorita  Montana,  a  belle  of  the  neighboring  Spanish  prov- 
nce  of  Florida ;  an  heiress  in  her  own  right ;  having  certain  sil 
ver-mines  and  mountains  in  Mexico ;  coffee  and  sugar  plantations 
in  Cuba ;  and  a  princely  hacienda,  whither  she  had  resort  in  spring 
and  winter,  in  the  life-giving  and  life-preserving  region  of  Espiritu 
Santo  (or  Tampa  bay).  These  —  inventions  mostly — owed  their 
birth  and  circulation  to  the  fertile  genius  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Ander 
son,  who  contrived,  within  twenty-four  hours  after  her  <?uest  had 


PETTY   REVENGES.  SIS 

reached  her  domicil,  to  set  these  golden  bubbles  of  fancy  afloat  on 
the  wings  of  rumor.  She  had  her  policy  in  multiplying  the  at 
tractions  of  her  house ;  for  the  fine  lady,  though  in  her  own  set 
supreme,  had  yet  certain  competitors  in  society.  There  were 
other  coarse,  fat,  vulgar,  and  ridiculous  women  about  town  —  of  a 
certain  age  —  whose  ambition  it  was  to  usurp  dominion  over  all  the 
local  exclusives.  The  Senorita  de  Montano  was  admirably 
designed  to  provoke  the  envy  and  jealousy  of  all  these  people. 

Poor  child !  Little  did  she  fancy  the  uses  she  was  to  be  put 
to.  Frankly  admitting  herself  to  be  a  fool,  and  ignoring  reason 
utterly  in  her  own  case,  Zulieme  can  not  well  be  brought  before 
our  court  for  judgment,  in  respect  to  those  absurdities  of  moral 
which  we  undertook  to  canvass  passingly  at  the  opening  of  this 
chapter.  She  was  willing  to  be  a  child,  and  to  profess  nothing 
beyond.  Her  humility  affords  her  ample  refuge  from  our  judg 
ment.  But,  by  way  of  caveat  to  the  judgment  of  others,  we  take 
/eave  to  say  that,  if  we  take  the  operations  of  her  feminine  in 
stincts  into  the  account,  Zulieme  is  perhaps  not  half  the  fool  which 
she  appears  —  not  half  the  fool,  compared  with  some  of  her  most 
self-assured  neighbors ;  for,  entre  nous,  an  honest  instinct  is  not 
only  a  safer,  but,  in  all  respects,  a  wiser  guide  for  humanity  than  a 
corrupt  or  perverted  reason ;  and,  where  there  is  any  feebleness 
of  intellect,  it  is  no  small  proof  of  real  wisdom  to  trust  nothing  to 
this  blind  sort  of  guide,  but  modestly  to  content  one's  self  with  a 
lamblike  deference  to  tracks,  as  prescribed  by  the  good  old  mater 
nal  bell-wether,  which  we  call  Nature. 

Of  course,  we  can  all  conceive,  very  readily,  that  Miss  Monta 
no  —  the  Senorita  de  Montano  —  is  to  be  the  great  feature,  the 
lioness,  at  the  receptions  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  But,  as  we 
have  hinted,  the  pique  of  that  lady  toward  Harry  Calvert  suggest 
ed  certain  other  objects  which  may  not  be  so  obvious  to  the  un 
suspecting  wits  of  our  readers.  Let  us  make  them  wiser,  if  we 
can  ;  and  we  can  scarcely  do  this  so  well  as  by  retracing  our  steps 
for  a  brief  space,  to  the  period  of  that  interview,  already  reported 
between  Calvert  and  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  which  the  former  arranged 
for  the  visit  of  his  wife  to  a  town  in  which  he  dared  not  show 
himself. 

We  all  remember  with  what  savage  coolness  Calvert  received 
the  revelations  of  tenderness  which  Mrs.  Anderson  made  on  that  oc- 


320  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

casion.  When  he  was  gone,  and  the  lady  had  sufficiently  exam 
ined  the  presents  of  shawl  and  jewels  he  had  brought  her,  she  put 
them  away,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  subsided  pensively  into 
her  cushions — her  thoughts  divided  between  the  sensation  which 
these  ornaments  would  produce  among  her  envious  friends,  and 
the  disappointment  which  she  felt  at  Calvert's  cavalier  indiffer 
ence  to  her  charms,  which,  as  she  fondly  conceived,  would  net 
have  been  so  slighted  by  any  other  cavalier. 

"  Cold  and  insensible  !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  after  some  ten  min 
utes  of  moody  meditation. 

"  He  sees  how  I  feel.  He  knows  how  much  I  think  of  him. 
Yet  he  mocks  my  affections.  In  his  heart  he  mocks  at  mine ! 
His  smooth  and  courtly  compliments  do  not  deceive  me.  Is  it 
possible  that  he  thinks  lightly  of  me  —  despises  me?  Ha!" 

And  she  rose  quickly,  and  stood  before  the  great  circular  mir 
ror.  The  survey  consoled  her.  When  did  it  fail  to  do  so,  in  the 
case  of  vanity  —  that  self-deceiving  passion  which  drinks  in  ali 
ment  from  so  many  thousand  deceptive  sources  ?  Her  eyes  bright 
ened  : — 

"  No !  it  can  not  be  that  he  despises  my  affection.  Is  he  dull, 
then  ?  Can  he  not  see,  for  himself,  how  much  more  precious 
would  be  his  sympathies  than  the  most  fervid  passion  of  the  man 
to  whom  I  am  fettered  ?  Ah  !  he  would  say,  the  man  to  whom  I 
have  sold  myself !  Was  not  that  his  own  sarcasm  ?  Did  he  not 
imply,  even  if  he  did  not  express  it?  And  does  he  not  admit  that 
he,  too,  had  sold  himself?  He  talks  of  gratitude  as  prompting 
him  to  marry  this  Zulieme  ;  but  would  he  have  married  this  Span 
ish  woman,  of  whom  he  speaks  as  a  child  —  which  is  almost  say 
ing  she  is  a  fool  —  if  she  had  not  brought  him  a  golden  dowry? 
He  admits  that  he  loved  another,  even  while  he  married  her !  In 
what,  then,  does  his  conduct  differ  from  mine,  and  how  should  he 
dare  rebuke  me  for  a  weakness  of  which  he  was  just  as  guilty 
himself ?  He  loves  another:  he  avows  it,  and  to  me ;  ay,  at  the 
cry  moment  when  I  am  showing  my  affection  for  himself!  Cruel, 
scornful,  insolent!  He  might  have  spared  me  that.  And  she 
lives  —  this  other,  this  preferred  one  —  but  where  ?  Not  here,  cer 
tainly.  She  is  lost  to  him  for  ever :  that  he  admits.  Living,  yet 
lost !  Then  she  must  be  the  wife  of  another.  Ah !  it  is  not  his 
virtues,  then,  that  make  him  cold  to  me.  He  would  no  doubt 


PETTY   REVENGES.  321 

bear  her  off  from  the  more  fortunate  husband,  if  she  would  suffer 
it  —  ay,  if  she  but  showed  him,  as  I  have  done,  how  much  he 
was  preferred.  Who  can  she  be  ?  I  must  worm  the  secret  from 
him !" 

She  again  resumed  her  place  upon  the  cushions.  She  lay  with 
languid  air,  at  length.  But  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  brightened,  with  the  heightening  fever  in  her  veins,  as,  step 
by  step,  she  reconsidered  the  details  of  her  interview  with  the 
reluctant  rover. 

"  But  what  a  man  he  is  !  How  noble  in  form  and  presence  ! 
What  an  air  he  carries !  —  what  a  haughty  yet  subdued  aspect ! 
what  sweet  but  powerful  tones  in  his  voice !  what  authority  in  all 
his  words  !  I  could  be  that  man's  slave  sooner  than  the  honored 
wife  that  I  am  !  I  could  share  his  poverty  with  pride,  brave  his 
dangers  without  fear :  while  now,  blest,  as  he  tells  me,  with  wealth, 
and  safe  in  society,  I  have  no  satisfaction  in  either.  That  he 
should  taunt  me  so  ! 

"  Ay !"  she  murmured,  with  increase  of  bitterness  in  her  ac 
cents  — 

"  Ay  !  he  could  refer  me  to  my  wealth  and  position,  as  sufficient 
to  console  me  for  this  wretched  life ;  lacking  all  sympathy ;  in 
which  the  heart  broods  over  its  own  loneliness,  while  the  passions 
gnaw  upon  it,  keeping  it  for  ever  bleeding  !  Wealth,  to  a  want 
ing  heart !  Society  and  fashion,  to  one  who  asks  only  for  love's 
precious  aliment !  O  Harry  Calvert !  how  can  you,  with  your 
own  heart  denied,  commend  such  wretched  food  to  mine  ?  It  is 
in  very  mockery  that  you  have  spoken,  and  I  will  never  for 
give  it !" 

She  wept  at  the  self-drawn  picture  of  her  own  wretchedness. 
For  the  moment,  she  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  true  to  the 
life.  The  quality  of  reason,  warped  by  the  master-passion  to  its 
purposes,  had  rendered  her  conclusions  sufficiently  logical  to  sat- 
sfy  her  thought.  She  really  wept  at  her  own  fancied  sorrows. 

"  And  this  Spanish  woman  ?  this  child,  as  he  calls  her  !  She 
is  pretty,  even  in  his  eyes  —  pretty  and  gentle  ;  a  child,  and  de 
pendent  on  him  :  yet  he  loves  her  not !  She  is  not  capable  of  his 
affections ;  she  can  not  understand  him  ;  does  not  suffice  for  his 
heart  —  does  not  know  her  own  !  And  they  have  no  children  — 
no  children,  no  more  than  I !  Yet  he  is  sure  of  her ;  he  can  trust 

14* 


322  THE   CASSTQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

her  !  He  relies  upon  her  instincts  for  her  fidelity  ;  upon  her  sim 
plicity,  forsooth,  to  protect  her  passions  !  Indeed  !  and  he  thinks 
he  knows  the  nature  of  the  woman-heart !  We  shall  see  —  we 
shall  see !" 

And  now  she  laughed,  as  certain  other  thoughts  rose  mischiev 
ously  in  her  brain.  She  laughed  merrily. 

"  We  shall  try  her.  He  braves  the  trial.  I  gave  him  proper 
warning.  He  can  not  blame  me  !  It  is  he  that  exposes  her  to 
the  peril,  not  I !  /do  not  throw  it  in  her  way.  /  use  no  arts, 
no  arguments,  to  persuade  her.  There  is  the  fruit  upon  the  tree : 
let  her  pluck  and  eat  if  she  will !  He  himself  is  willing  to  con 
duct  her  to  the  garden ;  he  himself  shows  her  the  tree ;  and  he 
turns  to  me,  with  cool  exultation,  and  says : — 

"  '  I  can  trust  her  safely.     Her  instincts  are  too  childish  to  b 
vicious.     She  will  only  dance  under  the  tree  ;  she  will  only  look 
on,  while  others  eat,  without  any  desire  herself.' 

"  And  he  knows  that  there  will  be  others  to  persuade  —  others 
of  his  own  treacherous  and  artful  sex  —  who  will  help  raise  her 
to  the  branches,  so  that  she  may  help  herself —  nay,  will  brave 
any  danger  rather  than  she  should  forego  the  temptation  !  Well, 
I  will  take  care  that  there  shall  be  a  tempter :  and  we  shall  see 
if  her  boasted  simplicity  of  heart  will  afford  her  any  better  shield 
than  mine ! 

"  There  is  that  young  Cavendish,  a  most  courtly  gallant ;  as 
handsome  and  eloquent  as  Belial ;  as  impudent  as  the  devil ;  as 
licentious  as  any  in  tlie  court  of  Charles ;  who  has  been  caressed 
by  maids  of  honor  —  precious  maids  of  honor !  —  and  he  has  come 
hither  to  escape  the  consequences  of  this  very  free  caressing !  I 
have  but  to  whisper  a  word  in  his  ear,  and  he  will  show  her 
where  grow  the  beautiful  fruits  of  perdition !  He  will  conduct 
ber  to  the  tree  !  Ha !  ha !  Harry  Calvert. 

"  He  shall  have  opportunity  enough.  Yea,  Harry  Calvert, 
since  her  simplicity  of  heart  is  so  perfect  a  security,  she  shall  rely 
on  that  wholly.  I  shall  use  no  watch,  no  restraint.  And  what 
should  I  care  if  she  falls  ?  what  is  it  to  me  ? 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it  may  be  something  to  me  !  who  knows  ?  Now 
that  he  holds  her  to  be  so  perfect  in  virtue,  her  childishness  of 
character  becomes  a  virtue  in  itself.  Infantile  simplicity  redeems 
all  other  defects ;  and  it  is  by  this  ane  quality  that  she  maintains 


PET'lY    REVENGES.  3 '23 

her  ascendency  over  him.  This  lost,  he  flings  her  off  with  scorn. 
He  will  do  it.  He  is  then  justified  in  her  abandonment.  The 
debt  of  gratitude  is  obliterated  by  the  stain  upon  his  honor ;  and 
she  is  one,  at  least,  out  of  my  way  !•  His  faith  in  her  fidelity 
makes  against  my  passions,  even  when  they  show  themselves  sub 
ject  to  his  own.  Well,  we  shall  cure  his  blindness.  She  shall 
be  tried,  at  least.  Let  her  go  through  the  trial  as  she  can !  Cav 
endish  shall  be  the  tempter ;  and  he  is  just  the  man  to  make  his 
way  with  such  a  creature  —  such  a  simpleton.  He  is  cunning  as 
a  serpent ;  playful  as  a  kitten ;  handsome  ;  fashionable  ;  a  famous 
dancer  and  singer ;  will  carol  love  like  a  nightingale,  yet  mock 
all  the  while ;  and  with  a  mouth  always  full  of  the  sweetest,  fan 
tastical  speeches,  he  is  audacious  enough  for  anything. 

"  If  she  withstands  him,  she  is  a  miracle  of  women.  We  shall 
see ;  and  when  the  fruit  is  eaten,  Harry  Calvert  shall  also  see ! 
He  is  not  a  man  whom  you  can  blind  through  any  self-conceit. 
He  can  be  made  to  see  without  needing  that  I  should  lift  a  finger. 
And  see  he  shall,  or  I  am  not  Charlotte  Anderson !'' 

Such  were  the  meditations,  such  the  purposes,  of  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson.  Do  you  set  her  down,  accordingly,  as  a  monster  ? 
Oh,  no  !  she  is  only  a  clever  woman,  "  in  society  ;"  having  a  rage 
for  personal  appreciation ;  ambitious  of  notoriety  to  the  last  de 
gree  ;  seeking  it  from  no  matter  what  sources  ;  easily  piqued  by 
disappointment;  and  aiming  at  nothing  more  than  —  petty  re 
venges  ! 

But  in  your  simplicity,  dear  reader,  you  cry  out : — 

"  Petty  revenges  !  Do  you  call  such  a  crime  as  she  meditates 
a  petty  one  ?" 

Yes,  indeed !  According  to  the  conventional  standards  to 
which  the  good  lady  is  accustomed,  it  may  be  held  a  very  petty 
sort  of  revenge ;  really,  a  very  moderate  way  of  resenting  a  dis 
appointment  !  For  you  must  remember  that  people  of  this  de 
scription  do  not  regard  virtue  with  any  such  sublime  sentiment  of 
veneration  as  possesses  your  unsophisticated  bosom.  They  hardly 
regard  its  loss  as  a  matter  of  evil  or  regret.  It  is  only  the  expo 
sure  of  its  loss  which  they  have  need  to  fear.  They  are  only  too 
happy  to  expose  each  other's  sins,  while  indulging  in  their  own. 
For  themselves,  they  are  not  at  all  solicitous  for  its  safety.  The 
quality  has  some  repute,  and  must  be  assumed  to  be  in  their  pos- 


324  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

session.  What  they  really  and  only  dread  is,  the  scandal  of  the 
loss  ;  not  the  absence  of  the  thing  itself.  They  may  think  as  the 
lady  in  the  Proverbs  — 

"  Who  eats  the  fruit  without  alarm, 
Then  wipes  her  mouth,  and  —  where  the  harm  ?" 

They  have  only  to  wipe  the  mouth  carefully  after  the  eating,  and 
all's  right  with  the  consumer;  for  the  simple  reason  that  all  seems 
right  with  the  world  ! 

With  such  an  appreciation  as  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  had  of 
virtue  in  the  abstract,  you  may  hold  her  to  be  quite  moderate  in 
the  sort  of  revenge  which  she  proposed  to  take,  at  once  of  Harry 
Calvert  and  his  wife  —  the  one,  for  the  indifference  which  he  had 
shown  to  her  charms ;  the  other,  for  that  most  impertinent  simpli 
city  of  heart  by  which  she  was  assumed  to  be  less  assailable  than 
wiser  people. 

And  to  the  fall  of  Zulieme  from  the  grace  of  innocence,  Mrs. 
Perkins  Anderson  pledged  all  her  faculties.  All  that  her  intel 
lect  could  do  —  her  arts,  her  reason  —  must  be  done,  to  realize 
that  result  which  was  required  to  bring  consolation  to  her  own 
mortified  vanity  —  her  own  unsatisfied  desires.  But  we  must 
reserve  the  process  of  her  working  for  yet  other  pages. 

Shall  the  tempter  succeed  ?  Shall  the  innocent  one  succumb  ? 
These  are  the  questions.  They  hang  over  a  thousand  fortunes 
daily.  We  rise  at  morning,  and  the  bird  sings  joyously  in  the 
roof-tree,  and  the  flowers  smile  without  stain,  all  odorous,  in  the 
garden  beneath  our  eyes ;  and  they  beguile  us  to  unconsciousness 
as  we  walk  forth.  We  forget  the  caprices  of  Fortune ;  we  think 
nothing  of  the  Fates  j  We,  too,  sing  and  smile,  not  dreaming 
what  the  hour  shall  bring  forth ;  especially  as,  with  too  many  of 
us,  there  lies  a  serpent  among  our  flowers  —  sleek,  smooth  —  who, 
even  if  we  see  it,  looks  not  so  much  like  a  serpent,  but  rather  like 
Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  :  and  her  we  take  to  be  a  friend !  She  is 
so  sweet,  so  smiling,  so  very  loving ! 


INITIATION   OF   THE   YOUNG   BEGINNER. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

INITIATION    OF   THE    YOUNG    BEGINNER. 

"  From  silks  to  scandals  ;  from  the  deep-laid  plan 
To  win  free  passage  to  the  heart  of  man  ; 
Subdue  that  rugged  despot  to  the  will 
Of  one  whose  sweetness  hides  a  despot  still ; — 
To  that  small  play  of  fancies  on  the  wing, 
The  motes  of  summer  and  the  birds  of  spring ; 
The  chase  of  butterflies  through  garden-flowers, 
Or  artful  games  of  love  in  secret  bowers  — 
Capricious  games,  where  all  too  conscious  grown, 
The  woman  seeks  a  province  not  her  own  ; 
And  now  in  play  and  now  in  passion  tost, 
Wins  all  she  seeks,  and,  winning,  still  is  lost  I" —  The  Town. 

LITTLE  did  our  poor  little  Zulieme,  in  all  her  anticipations, 
fancy  the  sort  of  welcome  which  awaited  her  iii  Charleston.  Lit 
tle  did  she  suspect  that  she  was  already  marked  out  as  a  victim 
by  the  cunning  of  the  serpent.  She  had  no  more  thought  of  the 
gravity  of  the  future  than  a  young  girl  has  of  her  first  ball.  Of 
course,  her  head  swam  with  excitement.  She  thought  of  dances 
and  dresses,  and  gay  people,  and  a  constant  whirl  of  pleasurable 
performances,  in  which  she  was  to  be  the  happiest  actor.  But 
beyond  this  she  had  no  single  thought,  feeling,  or  desire.  She 
was  a  creature  of  society,  who  had  no  relish  for  solitude*  Hers 
was  an  external  world  wholly,  the  interior  of  which  she  had  no 
care  to  penetrate.  To  pass  the  hours  gayly,  and  to  snatch  pauses 
of  rest  under  green  trees  and  rosy  enclosures,  gently  waving  in 
the  sweet  breezes  of  the  southwest ;  to  awaken  to  new  strains  of 
mandolin  and  guitar,  and  to  the  gay  prattle  of  new  companions,  all 
as  eager  after  sport,  in  sunshine  or  shade,  as  herself;  to  fill  her 
little  mouth  with  sun-purpled  fruits,  plucking  them  as  she  desired  ; 


326  THE    CASRIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

and  to  feel  herself  a  favorite  of  favorite  people,  though  she  taxed 
them  with  no  greater  care  than  that  of  providing  her  amusements : 
this  was  the  all  of  life  she  knew,  or  cared  to  know.  She  designed 
no  conquests,  and  never  troubled  herself  with  a  solitary  feeling 
of  jealousy  toward  those  who  made  them.  But  she  loved'homage 
nevertheless,  though  never  seeking  to  secure  it ;  simply,  perhaps, 
because  accustomed  to  it  from  her  earliest  consciousness,  it  had 
become  a  sort  of  necessity  with  her  nature,  rather  than  any  cra 
ving  of  her  heart.  She  no  more  anticipated  the  purposes  and 
policies  of  the  lady  of  fashion,  accustomed  in  town-life  to  a  per 
petual  struggle,  with  equally  active  rivals,  after  the  means  and 
objects  of  social  display,  than  she  conceived  any  idea  of  coquetry, 
conquest,  or  flirtation.  She  had  only  a  child-fancy,  which  is  sat 
isfied  to  chase  a  butterfly,  and  many  butterflies  ! 

Still  less  could  she  apprehend  that  she  was  to  be  specially  cho 
sen  as  a  victim,  the  better  to  afford  a  rival  the  means  of  victimi 
zing  another.  Little  did  she  dream  the  subtle  mazes  with  which 
social  cunning  was  prepared  to  invest  her  heart  and  person  ;  little 
fancy  the  means  which  were  meant  to  corrupt  the  one,  and  possi 
bly  degrade  the  other.  Had  it  been  possible  for  her  infantile  and 
unsophisticated  mind  to  conceive  the  wicked  purposes  which  were 
already  at  work  for  her  reception  —  the  deep,  sinister  passions 
which  were  to  be  put  in  play  against  her  peace  and  purity  —  she 
would,  childlike  and  silly  as  she  was,  have  recoiled  with  horror, 
rather  than  have  rushed  with  delight  into  the  specious  and  pleas 
ing  circle  which  opened  its  arms  wide  for  her  reception. 

But,  as  Calvert  very  well  knew,  she  was  not  a  person  to  con 
ceive  of  such  dangers  ;  and  there  was  no  mode  which  reason  might 
choose,  which  could  enlighten  her  understanding  upon  the  subject. 
She  could  be  taught  only  through  her  instincts  and  sensibilities ; 
and  she  must  live  the  experience  by  which  alone  she  could  learn. 
She  has  entered  upon  the  experience  already;  but  her  very  sim 
plicity  is,  in  some  degree,  her  security  —  as  much  against  suspicion 
as  against  real  danger. 

We  have  seen  what  was  her  reception  by  the  interesting  Mrs. 
Perkins  Anderson.  That  very  clever  woman  was  solicitous  to 
make  the  most  favorable  impression  upon  her  guest.  Of  course, 
Zulieme  expected  kindness,  and  a  friendly  welcome.  But  even 
her  Spanish  mode  of  exalted  and  superb  compliment,  which  puts 


INITIATION    OF   THE    YOUNG    BEGINNER.  327 

houae,  home,  horses,  and  servants,  all  at  the  disposal  of  the  new 
comer,  was  surpassed  in  the  lavish  warmth  of  Mrs.  Anderson's 
embrace  and  caresses.  No  care  was  foreborne,  no  consideration 
spared,  to  make  the  guest  feel  that  she  had  only  to  will  or  wish, 
and  be  gratified.  She  was  stifled  with  kisses ;  she  was  over 
whelmed  with  compliments ;  and  the  extravagant  raptures  of  the 
hostess  naturally  enkindled  all  her  own.  The  former  could  not 
sufficiently  satiate  her  eyes,  gazing  upon  the  charms  of  her  guest. 
She  was  so  sweet,  so  delicate,  so  exquisite,  a  little  thing ;  such  a 
fairy;  with  such  eyes,  such  hair  —  such  a  wilderness  of  hair! 
With  her  own  hands,  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  with  the  prettiest 
playfulness,  undid  the  masses  of  glossy,  raven  richness,  from  the 
tiara  of  jewels  which  bound  them  up,  and  let  them  fall  to  the  very 
floor.  And  she  made  Zulieme  stand  upon  the  hair,  that  she  might 
be  able  to  boast  that  she  had  seen  it  with  her  own  eyes. 

And  what  hands  —  what  feet !  How  tiny,  and  how  beautifully 
formed ! 

She  measured  the  hands  with  her  own.  She  persisted  in  pulling 
off  the  slippers  of  Zulieme,  and  her  stockings,  that  she  might  see 
the  feet !  Such  tiny  feet !  She  half  suspected  that  the  girl  had 
been  subjected  to  some  Chinese  process,  and  that  the  feet  had 
been  made  small  at  the  expense  of  their  symmetry.  But,  no ! 
they  were  perfect  —  the  very  feet  of  the  fairy  Nymphalina ! 

"  What  a  sylph !"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  how  Harry  Calvert  must 
love  you,  dear  Zulieme !" 

"  He  love  me?  No !  He  don't  care  about  pretty  hair,  or  little 
feet,  or  little  women !"  said  Zulieme,  poutingly. 

"Oh!  my  dear,  you  must  be  mistaken.  Harry  Cal vert's  a 
person  of  good  taste.  He  could  never  be  so  stupid  as  to  look  with 
indifference  upon  such  charms  as  yours !" 

"  But  he  does  !  He  do  n't  love  me  at  all."  And  the  pout  grew 
more  positive. 

"  Indeed  !  who  does  he  love,  then  ?"  curiously. 

"  Nobody.  He 's  one  of  your  fierce,  fighting,  English  brutes, 
as  I  constantly  call  him,  who  takes  pleasure  in  nothing  but  the 
Bulks.  He 's  a  savage  ;  and  so  cross,  sometimes,  that  I  'm  afraid 
he'll  eat  me  up!  Oh,  no!  —  he  has  no  love  in  him  for  any 
body." 

"  I  know  better  !     He  must  love  you.'" 


328  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

"  No,  I  tell  you !  He  does  not.  Everybody  loves  me  better 
than  Harry.9 

"Ah!  you  don't  —  you  can  not  think  so!  But  in  truth,  my. 
dear,  one's  husband  is  not  expected  to  be  one's  lover,  you  know." 

"But  why  not?  Why  shouldn't  Harry  love  me  as  other  peo 
ple  love  me  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  loves  you  much  better  ?" 

"Why  can't  he  show  it,  then,  as  other  people  do?" 

"  Oh  !  husbands,  my  dear  child,  are  not  expected  to  do  so. 
They,  at  least,  seem  to  think  so.  For  they  have  ways  of  their 
own  for  showing  affection,  and  I  suppose  these  ways  may  be  the 
better  ones." 

"  I  do  n't  think  so.  I  would  like  Harry  to  show  me  as  much 
love  as  anybody  else,  and  more  !  But,  look  you,  Charlotte,  don't 
you  be  calling  me  child.  I  begged  you  once  before.  Don't  you 
do  it  again ;  I  do  n't  like  it.  I  'm  not  a  child  —  I  'm  a  young 
woman." 

"But  where 's  the  harm,  dear  Zulieme?" 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  any  harm.  But  I'm  afraid  'child' 
means  *  fool,'  or  something  like  it,  in  your  hard  English  language  ; 
for  whenever  Harry's  vexed  with  me,  he  always  calls  me  'child' 
— '  a  mere  child ;'  and  I  know  that  must  mean  '  fool,'  or  something 
quite  as  ugly." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  won't  call  you  so  again.  But  why  should  Harry 
ever  be  vexed  with  you  ?  What  do  you  do,  or  say,  to  make  him 
vexed  with  you  ?  It  does  seem  to  me  that  it  would  be  monstrous 
to  be  angry  with  so  sweet  a  creature  as  you  are." 

"  And  why  not  ?  Do  you  think,  because  I  'm  small  and  young, 
I  can 't  make  people  angry  ?  I  make  Harry  angry  every  day ; 
and  he  does  look  so  grand  when  he 's  angry  !  —  but  he  frightens 
me  too." 

And  the  pretty  child  —  for  child  she  was,  and  perhaps  would 
remain  so  a  thousand  years  —  gave  a  lively  narration  of  some  of 
her  most  startling  freaks,  such  as  had,  frequently  enough,  driven 
the  stern  Harry  Calvert  from  his  propriety.  Charlotte  Anderson 
laughed  merrily  at  the  recital,  clapped  her  hands,  and  appeared 
wondrously  deb'ghted.  Of  course,  she  understood  the  whole  mys 
tery,  from  the  simple  revelation. 

"  Excellent,  my  dear,  excellent !     How  you  must  have  worried 


INITIATION    OF   THE   YOUNG   BEGINNER.  329 

the  formidable  captain  !  I  can  fancy  the  whole  scene  :  you  laugh 
ing  at  the  mischief  done,  and  he  storming.  Comedy  and  tragedy 
on  the  same  boards.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Admirable  !" 

"  It  was  no  laughing  matter,  I  can  tell  you  ;  though  I  did  laugh 
all  the  time  !  But  I  trembled,  I  can  assure  you,  even  though  I 
laughed.  I  knew  he  could  only  kill  me,  at  the  most — " 

"Kill  you!     What  an  idea!" 

"Yes,  indeed!  Harry's  anger  kills  sometimes.  He's  one  of 
your  terrible  English  brutes,  I  tell  you ;  but  I  know,  if  I  can 
only  get  behind  him,  and  throw  my  arms  round  his  neck,  it's  all 
over.  And  then  he  pushes  me  off  so  gently ;  and  I  sometimes 
think,  he  looks  so  sorrowful,  that  he's  going  to  cry!  Bui  don't 
you  believe  he  cries  :  he  never  sheds  a  tear  !  I  sometimes  think, 
if  he  would  cry  a  little,  he'd  laugh  more  !  But  he  won't  laugh, 
and  he  won't  cry,  and  I  do  n't  know  what  to  make  of  him  —  except 
that  he  don't  love  me." 

"  That 's  the  way,  I  fancy,  with  all  husbands.  They  expend 
all  their  passion  in  winning  our  young  affections,  and  think,  per 
haps,  they  have  done  enough  for  us.  Some  of  them  seek  other 
women,  and  give  them  the  love  that  is  the  right  only  of  their 
wives.  You  don't  suppose,  do  you,  that  Harry  Calvert  loves  any 
other  woman  ?" 

"  He  love  !  No,  I  tell  you  !  He  loves  nobody.  It 's  ridicu 
lous  to  think  of  such  as  he  loving  anybody." 

"Not  even  himself?" 

"  Not  even  himself !  He  fights,  so  Lieutenant  Eccles  told  me, 
just  as  if  he  wanted  some  bullet  to  kill  him.  He  runs  his  head 
just  where  the  danger  is  worst.  And  he  fears  no  danger.  I've 
seen  him  myself,  more  than  once,  where  I  thought  he  was  trying 
to  be  killed.  But  he  don't  feel  or  fear,  and  nothing  hurts  him." 

"  Is  he,  then,  so  desperate  ?  Poor  Harry  !  But  I  must  not 
pity  him,  if  he  does  not  pity  you.  Still,  I  can 't  do  him  the  injus 
tice  to  think  that  he  does  not  love  you.  I  'm  sure  he  loves  you 
much  more  than  you  imagine.  But  he  is  like  thousands  who  have 
the  feelings  they  know  not  how  to  show." 

"  Oh  !  Harry  could  show  them  if  he  pleased.  There 's  no  per 
son  so  quick  to  feel.  He  can  change  in  a  moment,  like  lightning ; 
and  he  shows  you,  very  soon,  that  he  feels  every  change.  He 
sees,  too,  every  change  in  your  feelings.  But,  Charlotte  dear> 


330  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

something's  wrong  with  Harry.  His  heart  has  had  some  sad 
hurts.  He  used  to  speak  of  a  person  —  " 

"  Ah  !  a  lady  ?" 

"  Yes.     Her  name  was  Olive." 

"  Olive  ?  —  ah  !  indeed  —  Olive  !" 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  had  advanced  one  step  in  her  knowl 
edge. 

"Olive  —  who?" 

"  He  never  told  me  any  more  ;  and  that  he  told  me  when  he 
was  out  of  his  head  with  fever,  and  when  I  nursed  him." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  your  nursing.  He  owes  you  much, 
Zulieme." 

"  Well,  he  loved  this  Lady  Olive  very  much.  He  told  it  all 
when  he  was  raving." 

"  Lady  Olive  ?     Ah  !  —  and  what   then  ?     What   became   of 


In  a  whisper,  drawing  close  to  the  eager  listener  :  — 

"  She  was  false  to  him  !  She  ran  away  with  another  man,  and 
Harry  never  could  hear  of  her  again  ;  and  since  then  he  's  been 
the  same  cold,  passionless  Harry  that  you  see  him  now  —  and  he 
loves  nobody,  I  tell  you  !" 

"  Not  even  you  ?"  with  a  smile. 

"  Not  even  me  !"  with  a  sigh. 

"  But  why  did  he  marry  ycm,  then,  or  why  did  you  marry  him, 
if  you  knew  all  this  ?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,  really  !  Somehow,  I  thought  it  would  be  pleas 
ant  to  be  Harry's  wife  ;  and  he  asked  me  one  day,  and  I  said 
*  Yes.'  We  were  playing  in  the  orange-grove." 

"  He  playing  !  I  should  as  soon  think  of  an  elephant  or  lion 
dancing  to  the  castanets." 

*'  Oh,  but  he  can  dance,  I  tell  you  !  When  I  said  '  playing,'  I 
should  rather  say  that  I  was  playing  with  him,  and  he  suffered 
it.  Now  I  think  of  it,  it  could  be  no  humor  of  play  that  he  was 
in,  for  he  spoke  most  wofully  all  the  time.  He  was  very  sad,  and 
very  changeful  ;  and  his  man,  Jack  Belcher,  said  he  was  afraid 
his  master  would  go  mad  !  And  so  I  said  I  would  marry  him, 
and  so  it  was." 

"  And  there  was  no  love  in  the  matter  ?  You  only  married 
him  that  he  should  n't  go  mad  ?" 


INITIATION   OF   THE    YOUNG    BEGINNER.  331 

"  Oh  !  yes,  indeed,  there  was  love.  I  love  Harry ;  and  is  n't 
he  a  noble-looking  fellow  to  love?  I  like  to  look  at  him,  even 
though  he  scares  me  ;  and  even  when  he  looks  at  me  with  a  growl, 
like  the  great  English  brute  that  he  is !  But  what  I  mean  to  say 
is,  that  he  do  n't  love  me  as  I  love  him  —  and,  indeed,  do  n't  love 
me  at  all !  And  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  could  run  away  from 
him,  and  go  back  to  the  old  hacienda  at  Panama,  and  never  see 
him  any  more  !  Everybody  there  loves  me." 

"  And  they  will  love  you  here,  Zulieme.  You  will  find  many 
to  love  you  as  you  never  were  loved  before.  Nay,  you  will  have 
to  be  quite  watchful  of  your  little  heart ;  for  there  are  some  cava 
liers  here,  who  are  the  very  handsomest  and  pleasantest  persons 
in  the  world  —  who  dress  divinely,  and  are  at  the  very  head  of 
fashion.  They  come  of  the  best  English  families ;  they  are  fa 
miliar  with  the  royal  court ;  have  danced  with  princesses  and 
duchesses ;  and,  no  doubt,  enjoyed  many  a  stolen  kiss  from  lips 
that  claimed  royal  blood  in  every  vein,  and  perhaps  had  their 
brute  husbands  besides.  I  warn  you,  you  will  have  to  take  care 
of  your  little  heart,  or  they  will  teach  you  how  to  love  as  you 
never  knew  before ;  and  how  to  cheat  love  with  the  sweetest  sort 
of  vengeance  !  You  may  lind  some  of  these  young  cavaliers  irre 
sistible." 

"  Oh  !  I  do  n't  think  so.  I  Ve  seen  many  fine  cavaliers  in  my 
time.  I  've  danced  with  hundreds." 

"  Mexicans  ?" 

There  may  have  been  something  of  a  sneer  in  the  tone  of  Mrs. 
Anderson,  as  she  uttered  the  single  word.  The  other  seemed  to 
fancy  it,  for  she  replied  quickly,  sharply,  and  proudly  — 

"  Spaniards  !  —  Castilians,  Charlotte  ;  and  the  most  beautiful 
dressers  and  dancers." 

"  Ah  !  but  the  cavaliers  of  the  court  of  the  gallant  King  Charles 
are,  I  tell  you,  irresistible.  They  Ve  seen  the  world  of  France 
and  the  world  of  Spain,  and  they  've  made  the  court  of  England 
the  most  gallant  of  all  the  courts  of  Christendom.  You'll  see 
some  of  them  here.  And  such  fine  fellows  !  Why,  dear  Zulieme, 
they  have  no  other  business  than  making  love  and  winning  hearts. 
Their  days  and  nights  are  spent  in  this  employment  entirely ;  and 
practice  should  make  perfect,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  whom  we  do  not  care  to  repeat  in  do- 


332  THE    OASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

tail,  dilated  upon  her  present  theme  to  the  utmost.  Her  purpose 
was  to  excite  the  wonder  of  her  auditor,  and  to  familiarize  her 
mind  with  those  pretty  and  pleasant  freedoms  of  the  sexes  with 
which  the  court  of  Charles  had  made  the  whole  world  familiar. 
In  this  progress  she  gave  an  entirely  new  notion  of  the  privileges 
of  the  sexes,  to  any  which  Zulieme  had  hitherto  known.  She 
laughed  at  the  authority  of  husbands  as  legitimate ;  denounced 
their  tyrannies,  as  at  war  with  all  natural  rights  ;  and  the  tyran 
nies  of  law,  which  sought  to  degrade  the  sex  into  an  inferior  con 
dition  ;  sneered  at  the  marriage-bond  as  a  mere  superstition,  which 
the  despotism  of  the  man  alone  sought  to  sustain,  and  in  behalf  of 
which  he  had  subsidized  the  priesthood,  who.  as  she  said,  were 
themselves  sufficiently  men  to  desire  all  the  privileges  of  the 
sterner  gender.  She  described  the  delights  of  that  easier  sort  of 
virtue  which  suffers  to  both  sexes  those  freedoms  which  the  pas 
sions  naturally  desire.  She  insisted  upon  the  legitimacy  of  the 
Passions,  as  asserting  Nature,  in  opposition  to  the  mere  arbitrary 
laws  of  society.  She  referred  to  all  the  animal  tribes,  which  ac 
knowledged  no  other  law,  and  were  happy  accordingly ;  and  she 
found  the  human  race  sufficiently  analogous  with  the  animal  to 
justify  for  it  the  assertion  of  a  like  liberty.  In  short,  she  antici 
pated  a  very  great  deal  of  the  popular  argument,  now  freely  in 
use,  upon  these  subjects.  The  topic  is  no  new  one  now-a-days; 
nor  are  the  arguments  a  discovery,  on  the  part  of  those  wise  wo 
men  of  the  East,  who  are  for  setting  up  for  themselves,  to  the 
subjugation  of  the  homelier  sex.  The  doctrines  and  the  logic 
employed  are  as  old  as  humanity  itself,  and  are  the  natural  doc 
trines  and  arguments  of  the  passions,  the  lusts,  and  the  vanities, 
of  a  people.  Suffer  them  to  decide  in  their  own  case,  and  the 
same  result  is  reached  in  all  periods  of  time  —  namely,  prostitu 
tion  ! 

"  Marriage,"  quoth  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  "  where  there  is  no 
love,  is  only  a  legal  prostitution." 

Suppose  we  admit  the  fact  with  the  lady  —  what  then  ?  The 
act  of  marriage  is  in  most  cases  a  purely  voluntary  one.  It  was 
so  in  her  case.  Reject,  if  you  please,  the  religious  aspect  of  the 
rite,  and  regard  it  only  as  a  civil  contract,  with  all  its  understood 
conditions ;  and  she  is  as  much  bound  by  it  as  if  the  deed  were 
registered  in  heaven ! 


INITIATION   OF   THE   YOUNG    BEGINNER.  333 

But  she  was  not  questioned  by  Zulieme  on  this  head,  or  upon 
Any  head.  Zulieme  was  no  logician.  The  simple  girl  listened, 
but  with  some  degree  of  weariness.  She  did  not  much  compre 
hend  the  matter,  and  did  not  care  to  do  so.  It  was  enough  if  she 
could  sport  and  play.  Beyond  this  she  had  no  strong  passion  or 
appetite,  so  working  in  her  blood  or  bosom  as  to  persuade  her 
into  any  interest  in  the  mental  abstractions  by  which  its  exercise 
was  to  be  justified.  It  was  there ;  she  had  it ;  and  it  justified  its 
right  to  be  there  by  its  simple  exercise,  irrespective  of  all  other 
motive  or  consideration.  She  herself  needed  no  argument  which, 
justifying  the  passion,  sought  really  to  legitimate  its  excesses ; 
and,  the  truth  told,  she  listened,  or  only  appeared  to  listen,  to  her 
experienced  Mentor  with  some  degree  of  impatience.  She  thought 
to  herself : — 

"  All  this  is  very  fine,  very  well  said ;  Mrs.  Anderson  is  a  very 
smart  woman  —  certainly  knows  a  great  many  things;  but,  is  she 
not  rather  tedious  in  her  eloquence  ?" 

She  had  to  endure  a  good  deal  of  it.  When  people  like  Mrs. 
Anderson  fancy  they  can  be  eloquent,  and  are  apt  at  saying  clever 
things,  they  are  very  prone  to  grow  wearisome.  The  hourly  iter 
ation  distressed  the  more  capricious  mind  of  Zulieme ;  and  her 
hostess  soon  learned  to  discover  when  the  little  Spaniard 
caught  up  her  jewels  and  began  playing  with  them,  or  began  to 
open  her  trunks  and  display  her  dresses,  that  the  period  was 
reached  when  her  homilies  should  cease.  She  was  wise  enough 
to  stop  on  such  occasions,  and  begin  to  play  the  child  herself, 
rather  than  the  Mentor. 

But  she  contrived,  in  these  repeated  talks,  to  make  the  ears  if 
not  the  understanding  of  Zulieme  familiar  with  the  loose  social 
principles  which  she  sought  to  inculcate  as  preparatory  to  her 
objects.  Her  themes  were,  the  wrongs  of  married  women ;  the 
brutality  and  selfishness  of  husbands  ;  the  unreasonableness  of  the 
marriage  rite  and  bond,  as  inconsistent  with  the  freedom  of  the 
heart.  She  taught  that  love  implied  perfect  liberty,  and  lost  its 
qualities  and  character  unless  this  liberty  was  enjoyed;  that  wo 
men  had  a  perfect  right  to  correct  their  mistakes  of  choice  in 
marriage,  and  that  society  required  nothing  more  from  them  than 
a  modest  reserve,  which  avoided  all  publicity,  in  the  correction  of 
such  mistakes.  And,  in  these  lessons,  many  others  were  taught, 


334  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  details  of  which  might  have  startled  even  so  obtuse  a  mind  as 
that  of  Zulieme  Calvert,  had  they  been  delivered  in  less  oracular 
and  circumspect  phraseology.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  a  little  too 
metaphysical,  in  her  forms  of  speech  and  thought,  to  descend  to 
the  mere  instincts  of  the  girl,  through  which  alone  could  her  un 
derstanding  be  reached.  The  lessons  were  too  frequently  thrown 
away. 

But  they  were  given,  nevertheless,  and  enforced  too,  by  the 
freedoms  which  the  guest  witnessed  in  the  household.  Of  these 
we  shall  say  nothing  at  present,  unless  by  an  example  which  oc 
curred  during  the  second  week  after  Zulieme's  arrival  in  town. 
It  was  after  a  long  talk,  as  usual,  meant  to  enlighten  the  young 
lady  on  the  privileges  which  the  sex  might  safely  enjoy,  if  sought 
on  conditions  of  proper  secresy,  that  Zulieme  showed  her  weari 
ness,  as  on  previous  occasions,  by  opening  her  trunks  and  jewel- 
cases,  and  getting  out  her  toys.  The  two  were  in  her  chamber. 
The  weather  was  growing  hot.  Zulieme  was  in  her  simplest 
deshabille,  and  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  floor,  the  better  to 
assort  and  arrange  her  wardrobe.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  not  well 
pleased  that  her  eloquence  should  be  thrown  away,  and  she  was 
even  then  in  one  of  her  best  passages  ;  but,  making  a  merit  of  the 
necessity,  she  accommodated  herself  to  the  temper  of  her  guest, 
threw  herself  on  the  floor  beside  her,  and  began  to  examine  the 
dresses  with  as  eager  an  air  of  childhood  as  the  other. 

But  suddenly  a  thought  seized  her.  A  flash  of  memory  opened 
a  new  plan  of  strategics.  She  started  up. 

"  I  long  to  look  at  your  pretty  things,  Zulieme.  You  have  so 
many,  and  they  are  so  beautiful !  But  not  here  ;  it  is  so  hot  ic 
this  chamber  at  this  hour.  Let  us  go  below  to  the  parlor.  It  is 
the  coolest  room  in  the  house.  Guy  can  bring  down  your  trunks, 
and  we  will  go  over  them  below.  And  we  must  be  doing  some 
thing,  by-the-way,  toward  the  masquerade,  you  know." 

She  began  gathering  up  the  dresses  as  she  spoke,  and  huddled 
them  back  into  the  trunks ;  and,  seizing  upon  the  case  of  jewels, 
she  led  the  way,  Zulieme  following  without  apprehension.  Guy, 
an  able-bodied  negro,  was  sent  up  to  bring  down  the  luggage. 
This  was  brought  into  the  front  parlor,  a  very  prettily-furnished 
room  for  the  time  and  country,  and  one  of  fair  dimensions  even 
in  modern  periods,  though  the  house,  like  all  others  in  Charleston 


INITIATION    OF   THE    YOUNG   BEGINNER.  335 

at  that  day,  was  of  wood,  and  by  no  means  imposing  in  its  size 
or  architecture. 

Very  soon,  the  contents  of  trunks  and  jewel-cases  were  scat 
tered  over  the  whitely-matted  floor,  and  the  two  ladies  stretched 
beside  them,  buried  in  that  study  which,  to  a  certain  few  of  the 
sex,  is  supposed  to  be  so  very  attractive.  There  was  a  great 
deal  in  Zulieme's  wardrobe  to  attract  Mrs.  Anderson.  Never  was 
city  belle,  even  in  the  days  of  "  Nothing  to  Wear,"  so  well  pro 
vided  with  a  wholesome  variety.  Silks  and  satins,  of  the  riches* 
hues  and  most  delicate  textures,  were  in  abundance.  There  were 
dresses  not  made  up ;  shawls  and  scarfs,  'kerchiefs,  lawns,  and 
laces,  at  every  moment  caught  the  eye  and  provoked  the  admira 
tion  of  the  fashionable  lady. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Zulieme,  what  lots  and  loves  of  things  you 
have!  You  can  never  wear  them  all.  Here's  enough  for  a  dozen 
women,  and  to  last  them  a  dozen  years.  And  it's  well  that  so 
much  remain  untouched.  Plow  could  you  have  kept  these  silks 
without  making  them  up?  I'm  sure  I  never  should  have  been 
satisfied  till  I  had  tried  myself  in  every  color.  That  is  a  great 
secret  of  beauty,  my  dear.  One  never  knows  what  will  suit  a 
complexion  till  she  tries.  That  green  will  be  most  becoming  to 
you.  You  would  be  a  queen  in  it ;  and  we  must  devise  some 
thing,  out  of  that  very  silk,  for  your  bal  costume.  You  should  be 
a  queen  of  fairies,  and  shall  be.  Dear  me,  there's  no  end  to 
them!  Don't  tell  me  that  Calvert  doesn't  love  you,  when  he 
furnishes  your  wardrobe  with  such  extravagance." 

"  He  does  n't  furnish  me.     I  just  take  what  I  want." 

"  Take  !     How  ?     Where  do  you  get  them  ?" 

"  Out  of  the  stores." 

"  As  we  do  here :  you  mean  the  shops  ?" 

"  Shops  ?  no  !     I  mean  the  ship." 

"  Oh,  I  see  !  I  understand.  What  a  grand  thing  it  must  be  to 
get  your  dresses  in  that  way !  No  wonder  you  have  so  many. 
The  only  wonder  is,  that  you  did  not  take  more.  If  'twere  me, 
now,  I  should  hardly  leave  the  ship  without  taking  off  half  her 
cargo.  But  isn't  it  still  a  loving  husband  who  lets  you  take  as 
you  please  V 

'•  Oh  !  Harry  don't  care.     He  don't  value  these  things." 

"  Or  any  things :  even  so  nice  a  little  thing  as  yourself,  Zulierae." 


336  THE    CABSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Not  a  bit !  Harry 's  a  strange  sort  of  English  brute,  you 
know ;  but  he  lets  me  do  as  I  please  with  myself." 

"  But  not  with  him  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !     Sometimes  I  do." 

"  Now,  if  he  would  let  you  do  as  you  please  with  him  as  well 

as  yourself,  one  might  think  that  he  had  some  love  for  you 

Dear  me,  what  a  glorious  scarf !  I  never  saw  anything  so  rich. 
I  should  look  like  a  queen  myself  in  that  scarf." 

"  Do !"  and  Zulieme  threw  it  over  her  neck ;  and  the  portly 
beauty  rose  and  strode  before  the  mirror  with  delight.  She  came 
back  after  a  few  moments,  and  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh. 

"  Hide  it  from  my  sight,  Zulieme.  It  is  too  beautiful  —  too 
tempting." 

"  No  !  I  mean  it  for  you."  And  she  restored  it.  "  Wear  it. 
Charlotte,  you  do  look  so  fine  in  it." 

"  And  you  mean  it  for  me,  Zulieme  ?"  cried  the  other.  "  You 
are  so  good !" 

And  the  heart  of  the  vain  woman  half  revolted  at  the  role  she 
had  resolved  to  play,  in  her  relations  with  the  simple  creature. 

"  Yes,"  said  Zulieme.  "  And  here  is  more,  Charlotte,  that  will 
better  suit  you  than  me.  There  is  a  silk  :  it  will  make  a  beauti 
ful  dress,  and  match  the  scarf.  But,  somehow,  I  don't  like  the 
shade;  it  don't  suit  me  now.  I  wonder  why  I  took  it.  And 
here's  a  maroon.  Do  you  like  maroon  ?  I  don't.  Take  that  — 
and  that,  too,  Charlotte." 

"  No,  I  won't !  You  are  too  generous,  child.  I  won't  rob  you 
BO!" 

"  Rob  me !  Why,  I  meant  several  of  these  things  for  you, 
when  I  came.  Harry  bade  me  choose  them  for  you." 

"  Then  they  are  his  presents,  not  yours !" 

"  Yes !  I  never  would  have  thought  of  it,  Charlotte.  But 
Harry,  he  thinks  of  everything." 

"  A  strange  husband,  that — your  Harry — and  not  so  bad  after 
all." 

"  Bad  !  Harry  bad  ?  No,  indeed  !  Harry's  as  good  a  man  as 
ever  wore  a  hat.  It's  only  that  he's  such  a  monster,  that  I  quar 
rel  with  him.  He's  such  a  great  English  brute,  and  so  grand  !" 

Charlotte  laughed  at  the  child's  contradictions  of  speech,  but 
did  not  seek  to  reconcile  them.  And  so,  for  awhile,  the  chat  con- 


INITIATION    OP   THE    YOUNG   BEGINNER.  337 

tinned  ;  passing  very  soon  into  a  discussion  of  the  several  charac 
ters  from  which  they  might  successfully  choose  for  the  approach 
ing  masquerade,  and  how  the  dresses  were  to  be  made  up. 

Into  these  details,  Heaven  forefend  that  we  should  enter !  We 
half  forget,  indeed,  whether  we  have  said  enough,  in  previous 
pages,  to  apprize  the  reader  of  that  great  event  with  which  the 
fashionable  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  preparing  to  confound 
the  simple  natives  of  Charleston. 

It  was  to  be  the  first  affair  of  the  kind  on  Ashley  river.  Let 
this  fact  be  remembered.  Of  course,  it  was  to  be  a  sensational 
affair;  Mrs.  Anderson  being  resolved,  by  this  one  superlative 
effort,  to  take  the  wind  out  of  all  other  fashionable  sails,  and  estab 
lish  her  own  superior  going,  as  a  vessel  of  the  greatest  fow-nage ! 
Calvert's  jewels,  and  Zulieme's  silks  and  satins,  were  calculated, 
in  great  degree,  to  render  the  affair  successful. 

It  was  while  the  two  were  prostrate  on  the  floor,  immersed  in 
these  rainbow  varieties  of  silk  and  splendor  —  the  matting  liter 
ally  overstrewn  with  colors,  and  the  pair  of  tongues  eager  in  their 
discussion  —  that  the  door  was  opened  wide,  and,  simultaneously 
with  the  announcement  of  his  name,  the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven 
abruptly  made  his  appearance  in  the  room ! 

15 


888  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

HEADS    OR    TAILS. 

"  We  '11  take  the  cast  of  Fortune  on  our  fate, 
And  he  who  wins  shall  pledge  himself  to  bide 
In  friendship  with  the  loser ;  he  who  fails, 
Do  service  to  the  conqueror.     So  shall  both 
Profit,  through  loss ;  and  gain  itself  become 
Joint  capital  for  those  who,  paired  with  love, 
Know  free  division  of  the  common  gain."  —  Old  Play. 

THE  Honorable  Keppel  Craven  was  a  younger  son.  He  had 
nothing  beyond  his  airs,  graces,  and  good  looks,  of  which  properly 
to  boast.  He  had  no  lands,  no  possessions,  no  funds,  upon  which 
a  creditor  could  lay  hands.  But  he  was  a  courtier ;  not  ill-look 
ing,  and  with  all  that  current  change  of  conversation,  about  people 
and  society,  which  constitutes  the  sufficient  capital  for  a  man  of 
fashion. 

He  was  not  a  wit,  but  he  was  chatty ;  not  wise,  but  he  had 
seen  something  of  a  certain  sort  of  pretentious  and  self-satisfied 
world ;  with  scarcely  an  accomplishment  beyond  fiddling  and 
dancing,  but  these  things  he  could  do  with  very  considerable  dex  • 
terity.  He  was  impudent  as  the  devil,  and  almost  as  much  a 
gentleman,  in  the  ordinary  courtier  sense  of  the  term.  He  had  a 
smooth  face,  with  slight  yellow  mustache,  and  fine,  curling,  amber- 
colored  hair,  which  he  kept  well  oiled  for  conquest.  He  wore  a 
profusion  of  the  love-locks  of  the  period,  of  the  tresses  of  which, 
resting  upon  his  shoulders,  he  was  not  a  little  vain. 

Suppose  him  in  the  well-laced  coat  and  purple  and  pantoufiled 
small-clothes  of  the  time  ;  with  half-drowsy,  half-smiling  eyes,  and 
a  fashionable  lisp  ;  with  long  rapier  and  well-pointed  shoes  —  and 
you  have  the  whole  of  him. 


HEADS   OR  TAILS.  339 

We  may  add  that  some  irregularities  at  a  gaming-table  had 
been  the  occult  occasion  for  sending  him  off  to  the  colonies ;  and 
that,  as  a  nephew  of  one  of  the  lords-proprietors,  he  had  honored 
Carolina  with  his  choice,  in  preference  to  Barbadoes  and  a  market. 

The  world  was  his  market  at  the  present  moment ;  and  his 
wits  and  beauties,  airs  and  graces,  were  the  all-sufficient  capital 
with  which  he  had  entered  it  for  the  nonce. 

He  had  seen  Zulieme,  briefly,  at  the  ballroom  of  Mrs.  Calder 
Carpenter,  the  night  before.  A  whisper  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Ander 
son  had  brought  him,  for  the  renewal  of  his  acquaintance,  the 
next  day.  He  was  one  of  the  irresistibles  of  that  lady.  She  was 
orerpowered  with  his  fashionable  claims,  and  conquered  by  his 
pretension.  It  was  in  full  expectation  of  his  visit  that  she  had 
caused  the  trunks  of  her  guest  to  be  brought  down  to  a  reception- 
room.  She  had  already  enjoyed  such  a  glimpse  of  Zulieme's 
wardrobe,  that  she  was  not  unwilling  it  should  be  seen  by  others. 
She  well  knew  that  it  would  confirm  the  hints  she  had  thrown  out 
of  the  wealth  and  treasures  of  her  guest,  who,  it  must  be  remem 
bered,  was  a  damsel,  unmarried,  unencumbered  (save  by  wealth), 
and  the  heiress,  in  her  own  right,  of  half  the  silver-mines  of 
Mexico  ! 

The  bait  naturally  took,  and  the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven 
was  an  early  morning  caller. 

He  was  not  the  only  one,  we  may  add,  par  parenthese,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Anderson  had  indicated  the  same  pleasant  lures ;  for  she 
was  one  of  those  ladies  who  always  provide,  if  they  can,  extra 
strings  to  their  bows  —  seeking  to  secure  as  many  beaux  in  her 
string  as  it  can  comfortably  draw. 

But  of  the  full  resources  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  on  her  own  and  the 
account  of  Zulieme,  we  must  suffer  events  and  time  to  make  their 
own  report  at  the  proper  season.  Enough,  here,  to  admit  that 
the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven  is  not  the  person  whom  she  espe 
cially  hopes  to  secure  as  an  ally  in  her  design  upon  the  simple 
Zulieme.  The  most  formidable  of  King  Charles's  cavaliers,  in  the 
sight  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  is  the  Honorable  Mr.  Cornwall  Cavendish, 
a  scion  of  the  noble  English  family  of  that  name ;  a  gallant  even 
more  comely  and  commanding  than  Craven ;  not  relying  so  much 
on  oil  and  scent,  but  not  the  less  accomplished  in  beguiling  a 
young  damsel  out  of  the  proprieties. 


340  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Cornwall  Cavendish  was,  like  Craven,  a  rake-helly  and  a  black 
guard,  after  the  genteel  school  of  English  fashion  ;  cunning  as  a 
serpent,  winning  as  a  dove,  and  capricious  as  a  cock-sparrow. 
They  were  birds  of  a  feather ;  and,  though  the  plumage  of  Cav 
endish  was  less  showy  than  that  of  Craven,  he  was  not  a  whit 
more  distinguished  for  sobriety.  They  were  both  birds  of  prey ; 
not  after  the  fashion  of  eagle  and  hawk,  but  of  the  type  of  those 
garden-birds  that  tear  up  the  seeds  as  you  plant  them,  and  wage 
devouring  war  upon  the  insect  tribes  :  to  whom  a  glossy,  wriggling 
worm,  if  painted  outside,  is  a  bonne  louche  ;  and  who  will  resort 
to  a  thousand  circumventions  for  the  conquest  of  a  golden  butterfly 
or  beetle !  They  could  be  earnest  enough  in  such  a  pursuit, 
though,  in  all  other  matters,  triflers ;  but  the  worm,  beetle,  or  but 
terfly,  must  be  golden  ! 

"  Either  will  do !"  was  the  murmured  thought  of  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson,  after  duly  advising  both  of  the  prize  in  her  keeping. 

"  Either  will  do  !  Both  have  the  proper  arts  for  winning  their 
way  with  such  a  creature ;  and,  if  they  succeed,  why,  what  pre 
vents  my  conquest  of  Harry  Calvert  ?  He  loves  her  now.  after  a 
fashion ;  respects  her,  at  all  events,  as  he  has  faith  in  her  fidelity. 
She  is  his  toy,  no  doubt  —  the  mere  plaything  of  his  fancy;  but 
the  fancy  of  such  a  man  requires  that  his  playthings  shall  not  be 
common  !  Their  wheels  must  not  be  set  in  motion  by  the  hands 
of  other  men.  Let  him  once  see  that  she  is  frail,  and  he  whistles 
her  off  with  scorn  ;  and  then  !  ay,  then  ? 

"  He  must  have  refuge  in  some  affections  —  somewhere!  Men 
are  so  far  dependent  upon  women,  that,  however  stern  or  earnest 
—  whatever  their  cares  or  sorrows  —  the  very  proudest  of  them 
must  seek  a  refuge  in  our  sex,  whether  for  passion  or  play.  And 
he  is  not  superior  to  the  rest  of  his  tribe.  Pie  will  turn  to  me! 
He  has  seen  that  I  prefer  him ;  and,  however  he  may  disguise 
the  feeling  from  himself —  satisfied  as  he  is,  at  present,  with  this 
toy  of  a  woman  —  the  discovery  did  not  displease  him.  No  !  his 
vanity  was  interested,  I  am  sure,  in  spite  of  his  woes  and  virtues. 
And  that  vanity,  so  soon  as  he  finds  out  the  weakness  of  the  one 
creature,  whom  he  now  values  chiefly  for  her  fidelity,  will  bring 
him  to  me ! 

"Ah!  I  know  him  —  know  his  sex  thoroughly,  and  do  not  de 
spair  to  conquer  his  stubbornness,  so  soon  as  this  pretty  child  is 


HEADS   OR   TAILS.  341 

out  of  liis  thought  and  sight.  Let  them  carry  her  off — one  or 
t'otli  -v,  it  matters  not  which  —  and  I  leave  the  rest  to  Fortune! 
Harry  will  not  fail  me  then !  He  will  not  look  with  indifference 
upon  a  person — " 

And  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  supplied  mutely,  by  a  gratified 
reference  to  the  mirror. 

"  Ay,"  she  resumed.  "  I  will  have  him  to  myself —  all !  He 
if.  not  capricious.  J  can  love  him !  I  feel  that  his  earnestness 
of  soul  is  not  a  whit  superior  to  mine.  I  can  appreciate  his  man 
hood  ;  can  sympathize  with  his  sorrows ;  can  forgive  him  that  he 
has  ever  loved  another  with  so  much  devotion  ;  and  gradually  win 
him  to  forget  the  ruined  past,  in  a  present  in  which  he  will  find  a 
soul  responsive  to  his  own. 

"  Meanwhile,  this  struggle  for  the  fair  Zulieme  binds  these  two 
fashionable  cavaliers  to  my  circle.  They  have  been  shy  hitherto. 
They  are  now  mine.  How  it  will  mortify  that  silly  but  insolent 
Mrs.  Calder  Carpenter  !  How  it  will  vex  and  worry  that  stale 
old  graybeard,  that  looks  like  Hecate,  just  after  getting  in  a  new 
set  of  teeth,  Mrs.  Andrew  Beresford !  Anyhow,  the  affair  must 
be  a  success.  I  have  shot  the  arrow  home :  let  us  hope  soon  for 
all  the  sports  of  the  chase !" 

The  hints  of  Mrs.  Anderson  to  our  two  gallants  were  confirmed 
by  the  impressions  made  by  Zulieme  herself.  She  had  taken  the 
fashionables  of  Charleston  by  storm.  Her  infantile  beauty ;  her 
picturesque  costume  —  for  she  wore  her  Spanish  dresses,  and 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  adopt  the  English  ;  the  piquancy  of 
her  simplicity  ;  the  unqualified  abandon  of  her  manner ;  her  naiveti 
of  remark  and  reply,  and  the  splendor  of  her  jewels,  had  effectu 
ally  done  the  work  :  and  there  was  quite  a  furore  among  all  par 
ties,  in  consequence.  The  gallants  were  wild  with  feverish  hopes  ; 
the  leaders  of  the  ton  coerced  to  conciliation  by  the  overwhelm 
ing  advent  of  wealth  and  beauty  ;  and  Zulieme  was  a  foreigner — 
a  rich  foreigner  —  a  beautiful  foreigner:  her  prestige  was  estab 
lished  in  the  first  hour  of  her  appearance  upon  the  scene ! 

"  'T  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view."  That  nobody 
could  say  exactly  what  she  was,  or  who  she  was ;  could  refer  to 
no  doubtful  antecedents,  no  qualifying  associations ;  must  receive 
her  just  as  she  was,  with  the  luminous  halo  of  the  remote  and 
vague  about  her  beauty :  this,  itself,  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  the 


342  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

rapidity  with  which  she  produced  her  effects.  And  when  the 
beauty  and  the  wealth  seemed  equally  unquestionable,  they  natu 
rally  became  exaggerated. 

Mr.  Keppel  Craven  was  in  ecstatics ;  Mr.  Cornwall  Cavendish 
in  raptures ;  both  equally  eager  in  expectation,  and  equally  re 
solved  on  her  conquest. 

They  returned  together  from  the  party  where  they  had  encoun 
tered  this  cynosure  of  love  and  beauty.  They  lodged  together ; 
and,  though  understood  rivals  at  the  first  moment  of  their  discov 
ery  of  the  treasure,  they  communed  together  of  the  prize,  and  of 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  to  be  won.  They  were  not  suffi 
ciently  deep  in  passion  to  be  angry  with  each  other.  They  were 
only  deep  in  expectation  and  policy. 

They  reached  their  lodgings  in  a  feverish  state  of  excitement; 
flushed  with  wine  as  well  as  fancy ;  exhilarated,  happy,  unappre 
hensive  ;  and  each  exulting  in  the  degree  of  favor  which  had  beer 
shown  him  by  the  artless  subject  of  their  raptures. 

"  By  Venus  the  victorious,  a  prize !"  cried  Mr.  Keppel  Craven, 
as  he  flung  himself,  at  length,  along  the  cane  settee  of  the  cham 
ber,  and  summoned  his  servant.  Cavendish  had  entered  the 
room  with  him,  and  disposed  of  his  person  on  a  lounge  opposite. 
The  servani  entered ;  and  Craven  kicked  off  his  shoes,  while  the 
lacquey  cased  his  feet  in  gold-and-velvet  slippers,  and  brought  him 
a  loose  robe  de  chambre,  for  which  he  exchanged  his  silken  coat. 

"And  now,  John,  bring  us  a  bowl  of  punch,  dem'd  strong,  and 
devilish  sweet,  and  piquantly  sour!  Nothing  but  punch,  Corn 
wall,  after  such  a  night :  the  sweet,  the  strong,  and  the  sour  -— 
the  all  of  wedlock  and  the  honeymoon !" 

"  Sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter  with  you,  Keppel  ?" 

"  The  moon,  rather.  I  am  moonstruck  !  That  Spaniard  is  my 
Luna !  I  will  worship  her  after  a  witch-fashion,  though  I  ride  on 
a  broomstick  for  ever  after !" 

"  Look  you,  John,  put  more  of  the  sour  than  the  sweet  into 
your  master's  punch ;  he  will  have  nausea  else,"  said  Cavendish, 
with  a  leer. 

John,  by-the-way,  is  the  prescriptive  name  for  an  Englishman's 
body-servant.  The  fellow  who  waits  on  this  occasion  had  been 
christened  Richard.  One  of  his  great-grandsons  is  now  a  member 
of  Congress,  and  looks  to  the  presidency. 


HKADS    OR    TAILS.  343 

John,  alias  Richard,  grinned  and  disappeared.  The  punch  was 
prepared  in  a  jiffy,  and  strong  tumblers  of  the  liquor  were  soon 
in  the  hands  of  the  two  gallants. 

"  The  Mexican  gold-mine  !"  quoth  Craven  ;  "  and  the  diamonds 
and  diamond-eyes  of  the  new  jewel  of  Golconda,  the  beautiful 
Zulieme  de  Montano !" 

"  Good  !  and  a  fair  wind  and  open  sea  to  the  brave  fellow  who 
shall  carry  her  off!''  replied  his  companion. 

"Ecce  homo!"  responded  Craven,  as  he  threw  himself  back 
upon  the  settee,  and  lifted  his  goblet  in  air. 
"  You,  Keppel  ?  you  !'' 

"Why  not?  That  excellent  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  has  al 
ready  felicitated  me  upon  my  progress  to  conquest." 

"  Egad !  she  has  been  equally  bountiful  to  me.  She  specially 
complimented  me  upon  the  impression  I  had  made." 

"  The  devil  she  did  !  The  arch-serpent !  Why,  Cornwall,  had 
you  heard  her,  you  would  have  sworn  that  the  game  was  already 
won." 

"  And,  by  Juno  —  whom  I  suspect  to  be  something  of  a  widow 
bewitched  —  she  gave  me  to  understand,  in  the  fullest  number  of 
words,  that  I  had  proved  myself  irresistible;  and,  i' faith,  I  am 
free  to  say  that  the  girl  herself  told  me  quite  as  much -r- with  her 
eyes,  at  least." 

"  With  her  eyes  ?  Oh,  d — n  the  eyes  !  I  must  have  it  by  word 
of  mouth.  And  I  could  almost  swear  that  she  gave  me  assu 
rance — " 

"  Oh,  d — n  your  assurance  !"  cried  Cornwall ;  "  if  it  comes  to 
that,  the  evidence  is  absolutely  worthless,  however  extravagant. 
But  your  assurance  will  never  do  here.  You  have  to  win  her 
against  a  score  of  competitors ;  and  there  are  some,  I  fancy,  Kep 
pel,  who  will  hold  you  to  the  full  stretch  of  your  tether  in  a  love 
as  well  as  a  steeple  chase." 
"  You,  for  example  —  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  blister  my  fingers  !  but  I  am  man  enough  to  do  it.  Look 
you,  Keppel,  don't  forget  the  affair  of  the  lovely  Jennings." 

"  P<haw  !  will  you  never  cease  to  harp  upon  that  affair  ?  You 
kissed  her,  you  say :  she  boxed  my  ears,  I  know!  But  what  fur 
ther?" 

u  Deponent  saith  not !" 


844  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIA\V  i.H. 

"  For  the  marvellous  reason  that  you  have  nothing  more  to 
say !  But,  even  the  kiss  was  only  secured,  I  suspect,  by  Roches 
ter's  favor  —  his  contrivance,  and  her  fright.  He  had  been  before 
you,  and  wanted  a  cover." 

"  Suspect  what  you  please,  Keppel.  Enough  that  I  am  satis 
fied  with  the  degree  of  happiness  I  have  had  with  the  Jennings." 

"  Well,  that  ought  to  content  you,  though  I  fancy  you  were 
over-soon  satisfied.  Still,  according  to  your  own  admission,  you 
have  had  enough  of  happiness  for  one  life.  Be  content,  and  leave 
this  prize  to  me." 

"  In  love,  nothing  contents  while  anything  is  to  be  won !  I 
mean  to  yield  the  prize  to  nobody." 

"  Love !  what  has  love  to  do  in  the  matter  ?"  demanded  Cra 
ven. 

"  Well,  we  use  a  certain  word  in  the  absence  of  any  more  ex 
pressive.  It  is  love,  or  it  is  lust,  or  it  is  matrimony  —  which  is 
another  name,  I  take  it,  for  speculation  in  the  funds." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  are  you  there,  Master  Cornwall  ?  Have  with  you  ! 
You  are,  then,  sufficiently  satisfied  wilh  this  Mexican  damsel  to 
share  the  noose  with  her  —  to  marry,  are  you  ?" 

"  There  is  no  room  for  doubt.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  proofs 
are  unquestionable.  She  is  doubtless  quite  as  rich  as  Mrs.  An 
derson  reports  her.  Did  you  ever  see  such  jewels  ?  They  shone 
upon  her  like  the  crown-jewels  —  as  I  have  seen  them  upon  the 
queen,  and  our  own  loving  duchess." 

"  If  not  paste  and  crystal." 

"  They  are  not,  I'm  sure !  I'm  rather  a  judge  of  what's  good 
water.'1 

"  Well,  drink  your  punch,  and  refill.  You  linger  over  it  as  if 
you  thought  it  water  only." 

"  I  might  have  drunk  more  freely  if  I  could  think  it  less  po 
tent.  But  your  fellow  John  has  made  it  as  strong  as  the  devil !" 

"  So  much  the  better,  Master  Cornwall.  We  are  upon  an  ar 
gument  that  requires  strength.  I  agree  with  you  thfit  this  beau 
tiful  Mexican  wears  jewels  of  the  best  water.  I  think  it  very 
likely  that  the  report  of  Mrs.  Anderson  is  in  great  measure  true, 
and  that  she  is  an  heiress  —  not,  perhaps,  to  the  extent  that  she 
reports,  but  she 's  rich  enough,  no  doubt,  for  either  of  us ;  and  so 
devilish  pret/y,  and  so  piquant,  so  peculiar,  and  so  petite — of  evils 


HEADS    OR   TAILS.  345 

choose  the  least,  you  know  —  that,  like  you,  sooner  than  not  wear 
such  a  treasure,  I  too  am  willing  to  take  it  —  with  a  noose." 

"  Ha !  ha  !  — good  !  It  would  almost  compensate  me  for  my  own 
defeat  with  the  Mexican,  to  see  you  '  Benedict  the  married  man.' 
"What  a  revolution  —  what  a  transformation!  You  would  never 
show  your  face  again  in  London." 

"Would  I  not?  Would  you  not?  My  dear  Cornwall,  mar 
riage  is  a  pill,  the  bitterness  of  which  is  soothed  by  the  gilding ! 
and  who,  in  London,  does  not  acknowledge  that  ?  Why  are  we 
here  ?" 

"  True,  true  !     That  is  enough  on  that  head ;  but — " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  it  has  not  come  to  marriage  yet,  with 
either  of  us ;  and  may  not,  if  we  play  our  cards  with  proper  dex 
terity.  This  lovely  Spanish  creature  seems  a  mere  simpleton. 
She  wants  love,  and  may  think  of  matrimony ;  but  how  if  she  is 
satisfied  with  love  alone  ?" 

"  Precisely  my  thought.  Women  do  not  much  care  for  matri 
mony,  anyhow,  when  they  can  get  love.  It  is  only  in  our  d d 

world  of  convention  that  too  much  love  and  too  little  matrimony 
loses  a  woman  position,  while  making  the  position  of  the  man. 
She  evidently  knows  nothing  of  this.  And  these  Spaniards  of 
Mexico  are  loose  livers  at  the  best.  Money  will  satisfy  the  Church 
at  any  time ;  and  where  the  Church  shows  herself  unscrupulous, 
the  woman  may  well  use  all  her  liberty.  She  generally  regulates 
her  moral  —  when  a  simple  creature  like  this  —  by  that  of  the 
Church ;  and  we  can  surely  find  many  good  fathers  in  God,  to 
grant  her  absolution,  when  Love  makes  his  plea  with  a  money 
bag  in  his  fingers.  I  shall  dodge  matrimony,  in  this  instance,  if  I 
can  —  and  as  long  as  I  can  !" 

"But,  if  dodging  will  not  suffice?  —  if  the  simpleton  should  be 
sagacious  on  this  one  score  ?" 

"  Then,  dem  it !  swallow  the  physic  as  I  may  !" 

"  But  you  will  swallow  it  ?" 

"  If  I  can  do  no  better.  I  will  have  this  Mexican  lady  of  the 
mines  !  I  will  disembowel  her  Potosi !  I  will  revel  in  her  charms 

and  ingots!  I  will  end  this  d d  long,  degrading  struggle  in  a 

sphere,  for  maintenance  in  which  I  lack  all  the  material  essentials. 
It  is  resolved  that,  par  amours,  or  as  a  Benedict,  I  shall  possess 

15* 


346  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

this  fair  little  prize,  worth  galleons  and  millions,  the  beautiful 
Zulieme  de  Montano !" 

"  Good !  I  like  your  spirit ;  all  the  better,  indeed,  as  I  had  just 
come  to  the  same  resolution." 

"  You,  Cornwall  ?     Impossible  !" 

"Yes,  by  Jupiter!  Look  you,  Keppel,  we  are  friends,  and 
must  remain  so;  but  friendship  does  not  forbid  honest  rivalry. 
I  am  without  a  guinea,  more  than  will  pay  off  absolute  scores 
from  day  to  day.  I  can  not  afford  to  be  generous ;  but  I  am  wil 
ling  to  be  just.  Shall  it  be  a  fair  contest  between  us  ?" 

"  I  had  much  rather  there  should  be  none  at  all !" 

This  was  said  somewhat  sulkily. 

"  Ho !  there,  John !  More  punch  !"  —  as  the  fellow  appeared 
—  "and  a  cruetful,  sharper  and  stronger  than  the  last!" 

For  a  few  moments,  the  parties  sank  into  a  dubious  fit  of  medi 
tation  ;  but  the  punch  was  brought  in,  and  John  having  disap 
peared,  the  goblets  were  refilled,  and  the  dialogue  resumed — 
Keppel  taking  the  parole : — 

"  A  contest  between  us,  Cornwall,  may  defeat  both  parties  ;  and 
I  have  as  much  need  of  the  girl's  gold  as  yourself,  perhaps  more. 
We  have  neither  of  us  anything  to  boast  of  in  the  way  of  surplus 
funds.  Besides,  a  contest  is  fatiguing;  it  exhausts  me!  You 
have  to  be  constantly  on  the  watch,  and  constantly  striving.  I 
confess  to  a  preference  for  that  fruit  which  does  not  require  me  to 
climb  the  tree ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  are  not  less  averse  to 
useless  effort  than  I  am.  Can  we  not  avoid  the  struggle  ?" 

"I  don't  see  how.  My  wits  fail  to  conceive  of  any  plan  but 
the  one  —  that  of  winning  the  Mexican  if  I  can,  and  by  any  pro 
cess  !  I  shall  try  to  do  this,  by  all  the  wits  in  my  power.  I  am 
not  ill-looking,  Keppel ;  I  have  some  wits ;  I  can  be  clever  at  an 
answer ;  and  can  do  my  impromptu  as  well  as  any  man,  with 
twelve  hours'  notice  !  I  dance,  sing,  play ;  and,  though  I  do  not 
relish  fatiguing  operations  of  any  kind,  yet,  by  Plutus,  when  a 
silver-mine  is  the  stake,  I  shall  go  through  fire  and  water  for  it !" 

"  My  resolution  too,  by  Jove,  rather  than  be  defeated  !  Well, 
it  comes  to  this :  we  are  in  each  other's  way.  Now,  there  was  an 
old  mode  of  removing  an  obstacle  of  this  sort  by  resort  to  a  short, 
sharp  cut-and-thrust.  But,  my  dear  Cornwall,  we  respect  each 
other's  throats,  do  we  not  ?" 


HEADS    OR   TAILS.  847 

"  Most  reverently,  Keppel." 

"  If  we  both  pursue  this  lady,  one  or  other  of  us  must  be  de 
feated." 

"  Most  logical  conclusion  !" 

"  You  may  console  yourself  with  hope,  as  I  do,  that  the  unfor 
tunate  will  be  other  than  ourself;  but,  quien  sale?  as  the  Span 
iard  hath  it.  Who  knows?  I  do  not  relish  the  idea  of  utter 
defeat,  nor  do  you.  I  dread,  in  the  conflict  between  us,  that  both 
will  suffer.  Now,  1  have  a  scheme  to  avoid  this  danger." 
"  Ah  !  Deliver,  my  dear  fellow  !" 

"  Let  us  submit  it  to  Fortune,  beforehand,  to  decide  which  shall 
woo  the  damsel  first ;  and  he  who  wins,  pays  over  to  the  other, 
within  three  weeks  after  marriage,  a  round  sum  of  ten  thousand 
pounds.  Her  estates  can  afford  all  of  that !  With  such  a  sum  as 
this,  I  should  be  reconciled  to  seeing  the  fair  Zulieme  de  Mon 
tana  safely  locked  in  your  arms !" 

"  Admirably  thought,  and  declared  !     We  are  to  throw  the  dice 
for  the  lady  or  ten  thousand  pounds?" 
"  Precisely :  that  is  the  scheme." 

"  Good,  Keppel !  and  the  losing  party  shall  help  the  other,  in 
all  possible  ways,  in  the  promotion  of  his  object?" 

"  Granted,  with  one  reservation :  that  his  failure  exonerates 
the  other,  and  leaves  him  free  to  the  pursuit  on  his  own  account  ?" 
"  A  good  proviso !     The  dice !  the  dice  !    the  dice  !     Hither, 
good  John !" 

"  Do  not  be  too  impatient.  You  are  challenging  Fate,  you 
know  !  Drink  your  punch  !  Think,  meanwhile,  of  your  loss." 

"  My  gains  rather.     The  lady  with  the  mines  of  Potosi,  or  ten 
thousand  pounds !     Any  how,  I  shall  be  better  off  than  now ! 
Summon  your  man,  and  bid  him  bring  forth  the  ivories !" 
John,  alias  Richard,  appeared  at  the  summons. 
"  Pen,  ink,  and  paper,"  said  his  master,  the  Honorable  Keppel 
Craven. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper?' 
"  To  reduce  the  terms  to  writing." 

"  By  Jupiter,  you  were  born  for  a  scrivener,  rather  than  a 
conqueror!  But,  be  it  so  !  I  accept  the  requisite n  as  a  good 
augury." 

Craven  wrote    the  other  looked  over  the  paper. 


348  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  You  were  not  born  for  a  scrivener,  Keppel.  I  acquit  you  of 
the  imputation.  As  d d  cramp  a  hand  as  that  of  a  York 
shire  ploughman !  But  men  of  noble  blood  are  not  to  affect  the 
special  virtues  of  a  clerk." 

"  There :  read  —  sign  !" 

"  All  right !"  said  Cavendish,  dashing  his  signature  below  the 
writing.  Craven  followed  him. 

"  A  copy,"  said  the  former. 

It  was  prepared  and  signed  like  the  former,  the  order  of  the 
signatures  only  being  reversed. 

"  Will  it  need  a  witness  ?" 

"  No  !  pshaw  !  no  !  "We  shall  neither  of  us  forswear  the  sig 
nature.  And  now  for  the  dice  !" 

John  appeared  as  soon  as  he  was  summoned,  bringing  the  dice- 
box. 

"  Set  it  down.  Avaunt,  fellow  !  begone  !  We  are  at  study  on 
the  fate  of  nations." 

John  fled. 

"  Throw  first,  Corny,"  said  Master  Keppel  Craven." 

"  What !  you  begin  to  tremble,  do  you  ?  And  well  you  may  ! 
I  must  throw  first,  you  say  ?  Be  it  so !  There  is  no  use  in 
hanging  off,  when  one  has  agreed  upon  the  play.  And  now,  help 
me,  ye  gods,  who  second  bold  hearts  and  gallant  fortunes !  Help, 
you  especially  who  excel  in  the  snares  set  for  beauty  —  Vulcan, 
the  net-flinger !  —  help  me  to  victory  !" 

And,  even  as  he  spoke,  he  rolled  forth  the  dice  with  a  violence 
and  effort  which  were  surely  unnecessary  after  putting  the  affair 
into  the  hands  of  Fate. 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  roared  Craven,  not  able  to  restrain  his  mirth. 
"  You  are  clearly  no  favorite  with  the  gods.  Three,  four,  one ! 
No  great  shakes  that,  Corny  !" 

"  No,  indeed  !"  answered  the  other,  sulkily.  "  But,  better  it  if 
you  can,  and  don't  stand  grinning  like  a  monkey !" 

"  Here 's  at  you !"  But  the  Honorable  Keppel,  striving  to  con 
ceal  his  anxiety  in  a  strained  laughter,  was  slow  to  take  up  the 
dice  and  box.  The  impatience  of  his  companion,  however,  urged 
him  to  the  thr  )w,  which  was  nervously  delivered. 

"  Venus  the  victorious !"  he  murmured,  as  he  let  the  dice  roll 
gently  from  the  box.  He  was  the  conqueror ! 


HEADS   OR   TAILS.  349 

"  Three,  four,  five  !  Well,  Keppel,  you  have  the  mine,  and  I 
am  to  submit  to  ten  thousand  pounds  !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  and  be  content.  The  lesson  is  your 
own.  For  my  part,  I  owe  a  pair  of  doves  to  Venus  !  And  now 
sit  down,  swallow  your  punch,  and  let  us  proceed  to  the  plan  of 
operations." 

These  we  need  not  examine.  The  half-drunken  rake-hellies 
continued  over  the  punch-bowl  till  dawn  ;  when  John,  alias  Rich 
ard,  came  to  the  relief  of  the  parties,  and,  summoning  the  servant 
of  Cavendish,  assisted  Keppel  Craven  to  his  chamber,  after  hav 
ing  helped  his  brother-lacquey  in  a  like  service  rejndered  to  Corn 
wall. 


350  THE   CASSIQUR    OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

"  HIGH   JINKS." 

Puck.  "  Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one ; 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone  : 
And  these  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befall  preposterously." 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

THE  sudden  entrance  of  the  Honorable  Mr.  Craven  was  a  com 
plete  surprise  to  the  younger  of  the  two  ladies.  The  wily  Mrs. 
Anderson,  who  had  fully  expected  her  visiter,  at  that  very  hour, 
put  on,  however,  an  admirable  air  of  astonishment,  which  she  did 
not  feel. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Mr.  Craven,  is  it  you  ?  Oh,  what  a  sur 
prise  !" 

"  A  not  unpleasant  one,  I  trust,"  answered  the  cavalier,  gal 
lantly  kissing  the  extended  hand  of  the  lady.  Zulieme  looked 
up,  and  laughed  merrily.  She  never  once  changed  her  position 
on  the  floor,  or  sought  to  change  it.  Her  surprise  was  not  one 
of  consternation  or  annoyance.  It  really  did  not  concern  her  a 
jot  that  she  should  be  caught,  by  a  gay  courtier,  lying  at  length 
along  the  floor,  immersed  in  silks,  satins,  and  garments  of  peculiar 
cut  and  fashion,  for  which  gentlemen  vainly  conjecture  the  names 
and  uses.  There  were  cases  of  jewels  open,  displaying  their 
brave  contents  —  thanks  to  the  providence  of  Mrs.  Anderson, 
whose  pretended  curiosity  had  contrived  to  put  on  exhibition  ev 
ery  article  of  magnificence  and  value  which  Zulieme's  trunks  con 
tained  :  and  she  was  rich. 

As  we  have  said,  that  ingenuous  young  creature  never  once 
fancied  any  awkwardness  in  her  situation ;  never  had  the  least 


"HIGH   JINKS."  351 

misgivings  of  its  propriety.  Nor  need  we,  at  present,  entertain 
any  misgivings  about  her. 

Of  the  mere  grace  of  her  attitude  we  can  confidently  speak. 
She  lay  like  another  Titania  —  the  Titania  of  the  opera-house, 
perhaps,  but  still  a  Titania.  She  was  grace  itself,  reclining  on 
luxury  and  ease ;  that  is,  on  one  elbow,  amid  a  pile  of  silks.,  her 
head  lifted,  her  eyes  looking  up  merrily  at  the  sudden  visiter ; 
while  an  enormous  string  of  pearls,  a  yard  or  two  in  length,  dou 
bled  over  her  right  hand,  fell  around  her  half-naked  arm,  beauti 
fully  harmonizing  with  the  exquisite  skin,  which  was  not  too  dark 
to  be  left  unenlivened  by  a  warm  current  of  healthy  blood. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  whether  she  was  conscious  of  it  or 
not,  the  position  of  Zulieme  was  such  as  to  leave  exposed  some 
thing  more  of  her  ankles  than  is  usually  allowed  to  entreat  the  gaze 
of  discreet  young  gentlemen  ;  and,  still  further  to  confess,  the  dear 
little  Mexican,  taking  advantage  of  the  growing  heat  of  the  season 
—  had  thrown  off  her  stockings  !  Think  of  that,  ladies  !  It  was 
the  natural  ankle  that  shone,  white  and  bare  as  the  arm,  upon  the 
eager  sight  of  our  gallant,  and  fixed  his  eyes  irresistibly,  as  if  with 
fascination.  And  it  was  not  an  ankle  to  be  ashamed  of.  It  was 
still  that  of  a  Titania  —  exquisite,  fairy-like,  and  worthy  to  win 
the  smiles  of  Oberon,  even  after  the  third  month  of  wedlock. 

Even  thus,  as  natural  and  unsophisticated,  did  the  Fairy  Queen 
rest,  with  naked  feet  and  tolerably  short  petticoat  —  of  green  silk, 
perhaps  —  beside  that  type  of  the  universal  genius,  Master  Nicho 
las  Bottom!  Even  thus  did  she  expose  to  vulgar  eyes  those 
charms  which  she  could  only  learn  to  value  properly  herself  when 
Oberon  had  found  a  rival ! 

For  a  moment,  the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven  was  at  fault. 
Convention,  at  least  in  the  simple  world  of  Ashley  river,  was  set 
at  defiance.  Was  it  indifference  that  kept  Zulieme  from  all  show 
of  disquiet  or  concern  —  caught  in  such  an  attitude,  and  by  a 
stranger  —  caught  in  such  a  deshabille,  and  by  a  bold  gallant  of 
the  court  of  Charles  II.?  —  and  so  caught,  when  Mrs.  Perkins 
Anderson  well  knew  that  ne  was  to  De  there,  and  must  have  ap 
prized  her  guest  of  his  coming?  Thus  did  Craven  query  with 
himself.  And,  if  indifference,  what  did  this  indifference  signify? 
Either  she  regarded  him  too  lightly  to  care  what  he  saw  or 
thought  —  and  that  was  provocation  to  his  self-esteem,  which 


852  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

made  him  feel  excessively  wicked — or  she  was  a  damsel  of  con 
siderable  experience  —  a  very  knowing  and  accommodating  one  — 
and  had  grown  rather  obtuse  in  non-essentials ! 

This  thought  rendered  him  a  few  degrees  more  wicked  in  his 
fancies. 

Or  the  lady  was  willing  to  allure  him,  after  an  easy  Mexican 
fashion,  to  a  conquest,  in  which  she  was  prepared  to  yield,  without 
making  the  labor  of  victory  a  very  exhausting  one  ? 

At  that  moment,  he  had  no  other  theories  of  the  situation  than 
these ;  and  these  were  all  huddled  together  in  his  thoughts ;  each 
sufficiently  provocative,  and  all  encouraging  his  impudence  — 
which,  as  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  had  familiarly  phrased  it,  was 
that  of  the  devil ! 

The  result  was  that,  even  while  addressing  the  senorita,  in  terms 
of  lavish  and  courtly  compliment,  he  threw  himself  gallantly  down 
beside  her  on  the  floor,  with  a  grace  becoming  the  best  stage  Lo 
thario;  his  rapier  so  judiciously  disposed  as  not  to  get  between 
his  legs,  and  his  descent  made  with  such  admirable  balance  as  not 
to  derange  his  doublet. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Craven  had  evidently  practised  in  a  school 
which  rendered  much  flexibility  of  body  a  highly-necessary  ac 
complishment. 

As  he  lay  upon  the  floor,  beside  and  fronting  the  fair  beauty 
of  Panama,  the  picture  was  a  fine  one.  Titania  had  her  Oberon  ! 
His  figure  was  by  no  means  too  large  for  the  Fairy  King,  who, 
as  a  Saxon  elf,  had  necessarily  a  good  physique,  even  for  a  fairy. 
And  his  costume  was  not  inappropriate  to  the  situation :  a  rich 
doublet  of  purple  satin,  frilled  with  lace ;  gay  small-clothes  of  a 
light  texture,  purffled  and  flowered ;  with  silk  stockings  of  a  deli 
cate  flesh-color ;  a  laced  collar ;  and  a  steeple-crowned  hat,  with 
feather  —  he  was  the  macaroni  of  the  era,  and  realized  the  object 
of  English  satire,  as  found  in  the  nursery-ballads  of  that  very 
time : — 

"  Yankee  Doodle 's  come  to  town, 

Upon  a  Kentish  pony ; 
Stick  a  feather  in.  his  cap, 
And  call  him  Macaroni  !"# 

*  Our  author  here  gives  us,  no  doubt,  the  original  source  of  our  national 
air;  the  verse  and  its  music  being  twinned  together  and  harmonizing  natu- 


353 

As  if  taking  his  lesson  from  the  stereotyped  stage- Hamlet,  our 
cavalier  adroitly  struck  off  his  hat  while  falling ;  so  that  his  long 
locks  floated  free,  and  filled  the  chamber  with  the  fine  oleaginous 
fragrance,  then  famous,  as  the  "Delice  de  la  Vallicre." 

The  performance  was  so  cleverly  done,  that  Mrs.  Perkins  An 
derson  clapped  her  hands.  Zulieme,  too  was  delighted.  It  was 
just  such  a  feat  as  amused  her  childish  fancy,  and  made  her  for 
get  everything  else. 

"  Oh,  the  funny  fellow  !"  she  exclaimed,  laughing  immoderately, 
and  nowise  discomfited. 

"  Funny  fellow  !"  thought  Keppel  Craven  ;  and  he  fancied  there 
was  something  irreverent  in  the  speech,  and  ridiculous  in  the  idea, 
at  a  moment  when  he  was  practising  the  graces.  But  he  smiled 
through  all  his  doubts. 

"  Really,  Mr.  Craven,  you  should  have  been  an  actor.  It  is 
very  certain  that  you  are  a  gallant !  Ah  !  I  can  fancy  that  you 
have  practised  this  action  a  thousand  times,  at  the  feet  of  duch 
esses  and  ladies  of  honor." 

So  the  gracious  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.     She  proceeded : — 
"  So  much  for  your  not  rising,  Zulieme.     But  I  thank  you.     It 
has  enabled  us  to  see  what  admirable  courtiers  England  can  send 
forth." 

The  laughter  of  Zulieme  again  answered  her — an  irrepressible 
burst,  which  she  did  not  seek  to  suppress.  When  she  recovered 
from  the  fit,  she  exclaimed : — 

"  Oh  !  do,  Mr.  Craven,  do  it  over  again !  It  was  so  very,  very 
funny !" 

"  Do  it  over !"  he  cried,  aghast  at  the  mere  idea  of  the  mon 
strous  effort  involved  in  the  exercise ;  and  looked  vacantly  at  the 
speaker.  Was  she  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  the  thing?  An 
Englishman  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  ridicule.  But  his  self-esteem 
as  quickly  reassured  him.  The  Honorable  Keppel  Craven  could 
not  surely,  by  any  possibility,  do  anything  absurd !  And,  if  he 
doubted,  the  pleased,  bright  eyes,  frank  and  joyous,  of  Zulieme, 


rally.  When  the  Boston  militia  first  began  to  parade  as  patriots,  awkwardly 
enough,  and  with  cornstalk  muskets,  the  English  army-bands,  on  station  in 
Boston,  ridiculed  their  military  display,  by  playing  the  old  English  nursery- 
air  of  "  Yankee  Doodle,"  to  their  marching.  PRINTER'S  DEVIL. 


854  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

satisfied  him  in  a  moment  after.  They  had  no  irony  in  their 
glance. 

Suddenly,  however,  she  discovered  that  he  had  taken  his  full 
length  upon  some  of  her  gayest  silks.  Her  tone  immediately 
changed : — 

"  Get  up,  you  great  English  elephant,  before  you  ruin  my 
dresses!  —  He  is  on  my  brocade  and  satin,  Charlotte  —  my  most 
beautiful  gown !  Get  up,  you  great,  awkward  monster,  before  I 
beat  you !" 

"Beat  me! — Your  gown!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  about  him, 
but  not  stirring,  and  curious  in  a  survey  of  the  treasures  he  en 
dangered. 

His  movements  were  quite  too  slow  for  the  impatient  senorita, 
who  first  threw  her  great  Panama  fan  at  his  head,  and  then,  dart 
ing  up,  proceeded  to  heap  on  him  a  pile  of  the  clothing  so  copi 
ously  accumulated  around  her. 

His  head  was,  in  a  jiffy,  enveloped  in  a  monstrous  shawl ;  and, 
we  are  constrained  to  report,  that  one  of  the  equivocal  garments, 
of  white  linen,  was  adroitly  enough  thrust  over  his  neck. 

This  was  too  much,  even  for  a  younger  son.  He  began  now  to 
feel  the  ridiculous  in  his  situation ;  and,  with  much  more  quick 
ness  and  dexterity  than  his  usual  languid  address  and  manner 
would  warrant  us  to  expect,  he  contrived  to  scramble  to  his  feet, 
and  fling  off  his  encumbrances,  all  of  which  he  threw  right  and 
left,  with  no  scrupulous  hand ;  his  face  emerging  finally  from  the 
envelopes,  deeply  empurpled  by  his  desperate  efforts,  and  by  his 
growing  feeling  of  the  ridiculous  in  the  affair. 

The  laughter  of  the  ladies  was  immoderate.  Even  Mrs.  Per 
kins  Anderson,  though  perfectly  conscious  of  what  was  due  to  the 
dignity  of  a  cavalier  of  the  court  of  Charles,  could  not  resist  the 
cachinating  impulse ;  while  Zulieme  clapped  her  hands,  held  her 
sides,  danced,  and  made  the  echoes  ring  with  her  clear,  free,  child 
like  outburst  of  delight. 

But,  as  she  stood  confronting  our  cavalier,  looking  the  very 
imp  of  mischief,  with  her  bright  eyes  flashing,  though  watery,  and 
her  lips  parted  with  her  frantic  merriment,  she  looked  so  provo 
king,  that  the  Plonorable  Keppel  darted  at  her. 

We  must  not  venture  on  a  metaphysical  or  psychological  sub 
ject  so  profound  as  to  ask  what  were  his  purposes  in  the  on- 


"HIGH  JINKS."  355 

slaught.  Something  of  pique,  no  doubt ;  something  of  humor ; 
for  the  silly  fellow  was  not  a  mauvais  sujet.  He  was  lively  and 
ridiculous,  no  doubt,  but  not  a  savage.  But,  whatever  his  pur 
poses,  they  failed.  He  shot,  like  a  rocket,  to  the  place  where  she 
stood,  but  she  was  gone  ;  vaulting,  like  a  gazelle,  at  a  single  bound, 
over  a  cane  settee,  and  ensconcing  herself  behind  it.  Craven 
eyed  the  leap,  but  did  not  dare  to  attempt  it.  She  leered  at  and 
defied  him. 

Then  commenced  a  regular  chase  round  settee,  chairs,  and  ta 
bles,  until  at  length  the  honorable  gentleman  was  compelled  to 
confess  himself  conquered  ;  he  yielded  the  victory,  collapsing,  like 
an  exhausted  butterfly,  upon  the  sofa. 

But  where  was  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  ?  That  amiable  lady, 
so  soon  as  she  beheld  the  game  of  "  High  Jinks"  in  full  operation, 
vanished.  She  felt  herself  de  trop,  and  fled  with  a  purpose  and  a 
hope.  She  was,  at  all  events,  willing  to  afford  the  cavalier  a  suf- 
cient  opportunity  for  play  —  or  mischief. 

But  Keppel  Craven  did  not  catch  and  kiss  the  Mexican,  as  she 
fancied  he  would ;  and  the  excellent  hostess  came  back  in  season 
to  behold  the  issue :  the  cavalier  exhausted  with  his  unusual  ex 
ertions,  and  no  doubt  feeling  very  ridiculous  ;  and  Zulieme,  neither 
fatigued  nor  frightened,  and  as  full  of  laugh  as  ever,  standing 
coolly  apart,  contemplating  the  exhausted  swain,  and  quietly  fan 
ning  herself  with  the  great  leaves  of  the  fan  of  Panama. 

"  I  'm  done  for,  demme !"  gasped  the  cavalier.  "  O  thou  nim 
blest  of  all  the  elves,  lend  ne  thy  palm-leaves  ere  I  suffocate  I" 

"  What  is  it  you  call  me  ?"  asked  Zulieme. 

"  Elf,  witch !— " 

t(  Witch !  That  means  something  abominable,  I  know  1"  re 
sponded  our  Mexican,  while  the  fire  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

"  Abominable  ?  no  !  It  means  something  divine,  delicious,  and 
most  killing !  A  witch  is  a  beautiful  woman  that  wins  hearts,  and 
laughs  at  her  winnings ;  a  tricksy  creature  that  plays  with  poor 
mortal  affections  —  that  conquers  only  to  fling  away;  an  angel 
that  comes  to  fill  our  brains  with  dreams  of  delightful  promise, 
only  to  mock  them  with  denial !  Ah  !  indeed,  thou  art  a  witch, 
more  potent  than  she  of  Endor.  Thou  knowest  not  what  a  spirit 
thou  hast  called  up  from  my  soul." 

"  Now,  I  know  that  you  are  insulting  me,  in  spite  of  all  your 


356  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

fine  speeches.  For  do  n't  I  know  that  the  witch  of  Enilor  was  as 
ugly  old  hag ;  and  do  n't  I  know  that  the  witches  were  all  to  be 
killed ;  and  do  n't  I  know  that  you  Englishmen  burnt  'em  up  ? 
And,  after  that,  do  you  pretend  that  you  are  not  calling  me  by 
bad  names  ?  I  have  half  a  mind  to  knock  you  with  the  broom 
stick  !" 

"  A  regular  witch-weapon,  dear  senorita.  But,  in  sooth,  let 
me  teach  thee,  most  beautiful  of  all  Mexican  beauties,  that,  in  the 
divine  language  of  poesy,  witchcraft  means  the  magical  power  of 
beauty,  the  spell  of  an  angelic  excellence,  throned  in  the  eyes  and 
on  the  lips  of  a  lovely  woman,  making  her  potent  over  devoted 
hearts.  And  such  is  the  power  which,  almost  at  a  glance,  the 
divine  charms  of  thy  beauty  hath  exercised  upon  mine.  I  believe 
thou  art  guilty  of  witchcraft ;  else  it  could  never  be  that  the  eyes 
which  have  never  faltered  before  all  the  beauties  of  the  royal 
court  of  Charles,  should  be  so  humbled  before  thine.  I  am  lost 
in  amaze  at  my  own  feebleness  of  soul !  Once  I  was  a  conqueror. 
I  won  the  worship  which  I  am  now  compelled  to  offer.  O  love 
liest  Zulieme,  beautiful  Turk,  let  me  make  of  thee  a  Christian, 
indeed,  by  persuading  thee  to  bestow  mercy  upon  the  poor  captive 
whom  the  fate  of  love  hath  delivered  into  thy  hands !" 

"  There,  again  !  you  are  calling  me  a  Turk,  as  if  I  did  n't  know 
that  all  the  Turks  are  Jews  and  idolaters ;  and,  besides,  you  say 
you  want  to  make  me  a  Christian,  as  if  I  were  not  already  a  pure 
Castilian  Christian,  while  you  English  are  nothing  but  heathens. 
I  tell  you,  if  you  talk  so,  I  will  have  to  knock  you!  I  won't  suf 
fer  it." 

"  O  perversest  of  all  Christian  beauties !  O  most  wilful  of  all 
Castilian  witches !  didst  thou  know  enough  of  the  divine  speech 
of  the  poetry  of  Albion,  thou  wouldst  know  that  the  epithets  I 
give  thee  are  all  loving  ones,  most  considerate  of  thy  charms,  thy 
spells,  thy  divine  loveliness,  which  lacks  only  in  the  Christian  vir 
tue  of  mercy  for  him  thou  hast  taken  captive  with  thy  bow  and 
spear !" 

"  Now,  what  nonsense  are  you  talking,  as  if  you  had  ever  seen 
me  using  bow  and  spear  !" 

"  Alas !  what  mischief  is  in  thy  hands,  when  thou  usest  thy 
weapons  so  ignorantly,  not  knowing  that  they  are  in  thy  very 
grasp ;  for  dost  thou  not  know  that  the  bow  is  the  very  beautiful 


i:  HIGH   JINKS/ 

black  arch  above  thine  eyes,  and  that  from  the  eyes  the  spear 
issues  "which  has  pierced  my  heart  to  the  core  ?  and  dost  thou  not 
see  that  I  am  thy  captive,  since  here  1  lie  at  thy  feet,  entreating 
thee  to  take  me  to  thy  mercy  ?" 

Here  the  speaker  rather  slided  than  descended  from  the  settee, 
taking  an  attitude  for  the  occasion,  and  appearing  the  graceful 
suppliant,  making  such  tender  eyes  at  the  lady  as  to  disarm  any 
hostility  which  her  doubts  of  his  language  might  have  occasioned. 

"  Get  up,  you  foolish  fellow,"  she  answered,  laughingly  —  not 
at  all  displeased  at  the  action  —  "  get  up,  and  do  n't  be  so  foolish. 
You  only  fall  down  there  because  you  think  you  do  it  so  prettily. 
But  I  can  tell  you  I  have  seen  other  men  who  did  it  much  better.'* 

"  Cruel,  that  you  should  tell  me  this  !     So,  you  have  had  othe 
men  at  your  feet !" 

"  Hundreds ;  and  some  quite  as  pretty  little  fellows  as  you." 

"  Pretty !  little  !"  cried  the  cavalier,  starting  to  his  feet  with 
sudden  indignation.  "  Do  you  call  me  little,  senorita  ?" 

And  he  rose  to  his  fullest  proportions,  a  graceful,  rather  slen 
der  person,  of  some  five  feet  five.  Not  above  the  average  of  that 
day  in  America,  certainly  —  perhaps  somewhat  below  it.  In  fact, 
while  no  one  could  recognise  the  Honorable  Mr.  Craven  as  a 
large  person,  still  no  one,  without  prejudice,  would  describe  him 
as  a  small  one.  He  did  not  know,  nor  did  Zulieme  herself  con 
jecture,  that  she  had  tacitly  adopted  her  own  husband  as  the 
becoming  model  for  stature  as  well  as  manhood ;  and  that  such  a 
standard  would  distress  the  ambitious  efforts  of  most  of  the  cour 
tiers  of  the  Charles  II.  circle. 

"  Do  you  call  me  little,  senorita  ?"  he  repeated,  approaching  the 
lady,  and  towering  above  her,  arms  a-kimbo,  and  head  superbly 
lifted. 

"  No,  indeed ;  not  when  you  come  so  close.  You  are  big  enough 
to  eat  me  up,  and  look  as  if  you  wanted  to  do  it." 

She  receded  from  him  as  he  spoke,  as  if  apprehending  a  re 
newal  of  his  pursuit.     But  he  had  not  quite  recovered  from  th 
previous  chase.     He  was  content  to  use  his  tongue  rather  than 
his  feet. 

"  Devour  you  ?  Yes  !  I  feel  that  I  could.  I  have  the  appe 
tite  for  it !" 

"  O  monster !" 


858  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

"  Yes :  but  it  is  with  love  that  I  would  devour." 

"  That  would  n't  make  it  any  more  pleasant  to  me,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Hear  me,  beautiful  Castilian,  while  I  ask  a  single  question." 

"Well,  what's  it?" 

"  Have  you,  amid  all  your  rich  possessions,  by  possibility,  sue! 
a  thing  as  men  call  a  heart  ?" 

He  advanced,  and  she  again  retreated,  with  the  question. 

"  A  heart,  I  say !  You  beauties  are  not  so  apt  to  believe  in 
the  necessity  of  such  a  possession,  even  while  you  insist  upon  it. 
Are  you  an  exception  to  the  common  rule?  Have  you,  beautiful 
senorita,  that  vulgar  essential  of  humanity  —  a  human  heart?" 

"  Me  !  a  heart  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  What  a  stupid  question  !  No, 
indeed,  no.  Why,  what  do  I  want  with  a  heart?  What  shou  d 
I  do  with  it  —  or  you  ?  I  do  n't  think  it 's  for  either  of  us." 

"  But,  beautiful  senorita,  you  mock,  surely.  A  heart  to  a  wc,- 
man  —  a  young  woman,  especially  —  a  beautiful  woman,  particu 
larly  —  an  angel,  a  sylph,  a  fairy — " 

He  was  approaching  while  he  spoke,  and  she  began  to  retreat, 
especially  as  his  hands  were  stretching  toward  her  under  the  im 
pulse  of  his  eloquence. 

"  Farther  off !"  said  she.  "  Talk  away,  but  do  n't  come  a  bit 
closer.  I  do  n't  want  another  run,  in  this  hot  weather.  And  I  'm 
sure  you  can 't  stand  it.  You  'd  faint,  and  then  I  might  get 
scared ;  and,  anyhow,  I  do  n't  want  to  have  the  worry  of  fanning 
you." 

"  Faint !  most  probable !"  muttered  the  cavalier,  sotto  voce , 
the  very  thought  making  him  begin  to  fan  himself  with  his  hands. 
But  he  said,  aloud  : — 

"But  you  would  fan  me,  should  I  faint?  You  have  heart 
enough  for  that,  surely." 

"  I  do  n't  know :  I  'd  be  more  like  to  run.  Men  have  no  right 
to  faint  before  women ;  they  make  such  ugly  faces." 

"  Ugly  faces  !"  he  exclaimed,  and  again  he  made  a  show  of 
darting  at  h(T ;  but  she  was  gone,  with  a  single  bound,  over  the 
settee,  which  stood  as  an  impassable  wall  between  them.  There 
she  laughed  at  him,  and  clapped  her  hands,  and  defied  him.  He 
had  looked  with  wonder  at  her  display  of  muscle  —  and,  we  may 
add,  ankle  —  of  which  she  had  not  thought. 


"HIGH    JINKS."  359 

"  Really,  senorita,  you  have  wonderful  powers  of  endurance  — 
rustic  powers,  it  is  true,  but  not  the  less  wonderful.  'Pon  my  soul, 
it  is  well  sometimes  to  pass  out  of  the  customary  world,  if  it  be 
only  to  observe  what  muscle  is  to  be  found  in  other  regions.  Ah, 
Senorita  Zulieme,  were  you  as  loving  as  you  are  light ;  as  tender 
as  you  are  touching ;  with  as  much  feeling  as  activity ;  as  suscep 
tible  as  provocative  —  I  could  —  eh  !  yes,  I  could — " 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Demme  !  I  don't  know  what ;  but — ah  !  I  have  it,  beautiful 
senorita  —  I  could  die  for  you." 

"  And  what  good  would  that  do  me,  I  want  to  know?" 

<k  Well,  I  could  live  for  you,  if  you  'd  suffer  me." 

"  Ah  !  that 's  something  more  sensible.  But,  would  you  really 
die,  if  I  would  n't  suffer  you  to  live  for  me  ?" 

"  Heaven  only  knows !  It  might  be  that  Nature,  which  is  sin 
gularly  tenacious  of  vitality,  would  enable  me  to  struggle  on,  in  a 
seeming  existence ;  but  that  would  not  be  life.  The  bloom  would 
be  gone  from  the  rose,  the  glory  from  the  sky  ;  and  one,  you  know, 
might  very  well  be  dead  after  that." 

"  Well,  you  talk  very  foolishly,  I  think ;  as  if  you  had  been  all 
your  life  in  a  house  where  the  people  had  all  agreed  to  say  noth 
ing  that  needed  any  answer.  I  don't  think  that  your  feelings 
will  ever  be  the  death  of  you ;  and  I  do  n't  care  at  all  for  such 
talk.  What  do  you  say,  now  —  you  have  rested  long  enough  — 
what  do  you  say  for  a  bolero  ?" 

"  A  bolero  !  Heavens  !  was  ever  such  muscle  in  a  woman  ? 
After  that  chase  'f  Senorita,  I  see  you  have  a  design  upon  my 
life.  You  would,  indeed,  be  the  death  of  me.  Dance  a  bolero  ! 
For  Heaven's  sake,  lend  me  your  fan  !" 

She  handed  it  to  him,  with  a  merry  laughter.  As  she  did  so, 
he  caught  desperately  at  her  arm.  But  she  was  too  quick  for 
him ;  and,  in  the  merriment  which  she  felt  at  his  defeat,  she  for 
got  the  offence  in  his  attempt. 

"  Ah,  cruelest  of  all  the  Castilians  !"  he  murmured,  affectedly 
"  There  might  be  some  hopes  were  you  a  Morescan,  of  browner 
tinge." 

"What's  that  you  say?"  sharply.  "A  Morescan?  Jews, 
again !" 

"Oh,  nothing!     The  Morescans  were  the  houris  of  Granada; 


<360  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

beautiful  creatures  that  came  down  from  the  stars,  and  brought 
wine  and  odors  for  suffering  mortals  like  myself." 

"Oh!  you  want  something  to  drink,  and  something  to  smell? 
Charlotte  !  Charlotte  !" — calling  pretty  loudly  —  "  here's  Mr.  Cra 
ven  going  to  faint,  and  he  wants  some  wine !" 

"  Great  Heavens  !"  cried  the  cavalier,  aghast,  and  now  almost 
ready  to  faint  in  earnest. 

"  Why,  do  n't  you  want  some  wine  ?  do  n't  you  feel  like  fainting  ?" 

11  Was  ever  such  a creature  ?  So  provokingly  dull  and 

literal !" 

This  was  all  sotto  voce. 

Here,  the  accommodating  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  hearing  the 
outcry,  and  taking  for  granted  that  she  had  afforded  the  parties 
opportunity  enough,  timelily  made  her  appearance ;  the  servant 
following  soon  after,  with  lunch  —  and  punch  —  on  an  enormous 
silver  waiter. 

It  was  with  a  sincere  sense  of  relief  that  the  Honorable  Mr. 
Craven  welcomed  the  lady  and  the  liquor.  He  ejaculated  — 

"  Ah !  thank  you.  I  was  quite  thirsty.  I  was  overcome ! 
This  most  piquant  sciiorita  has  —  a  —  a — " 

And  he  quaffed  a  goblet  of  punch,  as  if  to  cool  a  fever,  and 
finish  a  period  which  lacked  all  natural  terminus. 

The  scene  was  over ;  but  not  the  interview.  The  excellent 
Mrs.  Anderson,  when  she  reappeared,  did  so  in  full  morning  cos 
tume.  She  had  taken  advantage  of  her  temporary  absence  to 
adjust  her  own  toilet.  Zulieme  was  only  apprized  of  her  desha 
bille  by  beholding  the  fair  Charlotte  in  all  u  her  fine  effects." 

•'  Why,  holy  Mother !  Charlotte,  here  have  I  been  playing 
with  this  foolish  little  fellow,  and  —  look  at  me!" 

And  she  absolutely  thrust  out  her  naked  feet,  in  the  slippers, 
while  holding  her  skirts  sufficiently  high  to  let  the  white  ankles 
assert  themselves. 

"  O  Zulieme  !"  exclaimed  the  modest  matron.  "  What  a  child 
of  Nature !" 

"  Child  !''  muttered  Zulieme  ;  "  do  n't  you  call  me  so,  Charlotte." 

And,  with  finger  shaking  at  the  lady,  and  a  familiar  nod  to  the 
Honorable  Keppel,  she  disappeared. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  so  unsophisticated  a  creature  ?"  exclaimed 
the  hostess. 


"HIGH    JINKS."  301 

"  With  face  of  brass  and  muscles  of  steel !"  answered  Mr.  Oar 
ven.  "  She  did  me  up,  in  a  chase  of  fifteen  minutes." 

"What  did  you  chase  her  for?"  asked  Mrs.  Anderson,  with  a 
significant  and  somewhat  knowing  smile. 

"  Eh  !  why,  only  to  see  her  ankles  !" 

"  Oh,  you  wicked  creature  !  I  should  not  have  left  her  to  such 
an  able  courtier." 

"  Faith,  she  was  safe  enough.  She  has  the  legs  of  an  antelope  ! 
But,  dear  Mrs.  Anderson,  do  you  really  think  her  so  ignorant  as 
she  seems  ?" 

"  She  is  a  perfect  child  of  Nature.  There  is  no  art  about  her. 
But  she  can  be  taught !  and  lucky  the  man  who  can  succerd  in 
winning  her  young  affections.  But  he  must  be  bold ;  and  the 
usual  courtier-like  process  will  not  answer  here.  She  has  no  ro 
mance  in  her.  Sentiment  is  thrown  away  upon  her:  but  play, 
fun,  merriment,  dancing  ;  a  gay  humor  ;  great  vivacity  ;  perpetual 
restlessness;  and  a  ready  adoption  of  her  humors  —  thf.se  are  the 
arts  by  which  to  win  her  heart.  Methinks  she  has  given  you  a 
chance  at  hers." 

"  Eh  !  heart  ?  Hark  ye,  my  dear  Mrs.  Anderson  :  this  winning 
of  hearts  may  be  pleasant  enough,  while  the  game  is  doubtful , 
but  the  question  is,  do  they  pay  for  the  trouble,  the  exertion?"  — 
Here  he  fanned  himself.  "Mere  hearts — "  ho  continued. 

"Ah!  true  —  are  of  little  count  at  court  But  Zulieme's  dia 
monds  are  something,  Sir  Keppel." 

"If  not  paste!  —  yes!" 

"  Paste  !  See  for  yourself.  There  is  not  an  English  duchess 
who  can  wear  such  jewels  as  these !" 

She  displayed  the  glittering  treasures  to  the  gloating  eyes  of 
the  cavalier,  who  thought  of  the  ankles  and  the  gems  together. 

"And  see  how  she  lenses  them  about.  She  values  them  just 
as  little  as  I  do  mine !  So  much  for  having  them  as  mere  play 
things  from  her  childhood.  She  has  played  with  diamonds  as  you 
courtiers  with  hearts,  and  values  them  as  little." 

Enough,  perhaps,  was  said  and  shown  by  the  hostess.  She  was 
probably  not  wholly  unaware  of  the  game  at  "  High  Jinks"  which 
hr.d  been  played  in  her  absence.  She  saw  that  the  vanity  of  the 
cavalier  had  been  piqued,  his  cupidity  excited ;  his  passions 
warmed,  and  his  purpose  determined.  She  was  now  satisfied  to 

16 


362  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

let  events  take  their  own  course,  assured  that  Mr.  Craven,  at 
least,  would  engage  in  the  pursuit  as  hotly  as  was  possible  to  his 
languid  nature. 

Here,  then,  for  the  present,  let  us  stop.  Our  purpose  was  sim 
ply  to  show  under  what  circumstances  the  Honorable  Mr.  Craven 
began  that  acquaintance  with  Zulieme  which  was  rapidly  to  ripen 
into  intimacy.  And  this  was  destined  to  have  some  peculiar  con 
sequences. 

But  we  must  not  anticipate.  Enough  that  the  intimacy  was 
very  fairly  begun ;  strangely  enough,  but  not  in  a  way  to  startle 
the  Mexican  senora —  senorita  for  the  nonce.  We  may  add  that 
it  was  continued  as  begun,  until  our  cavalier  was  regarded  as  her 
special  attendant.  Had  it  been  suspected,  by  any  of  those  outside 
the  mystery,  that  the  lady  was  senora,  and  not  senorita,  he  would 
have  been  dubbed  her  cavaliers  servente.  He  rode  with  her, 
walked  with  her,  danced  with  her,  and  talked  with  her ;  but,  as 
Zulieme  was  rather  pert  than  fluent,  Mr.  Craven  was  better 
pleased  to  flirt  with  her,  and  only  dance  occasionally.  She  usu 
ally  broke  him  down  ;  when  —  such  is  true  friendship  and  a  proper 
holy  alliance  —  Cornwall  Cavendish  would  come  to  his  aid,  and 
take  the  lady  off  his  hands. 

We  must  do  her  the  justice  to  say  that,  in  respect  to  these  two 
gallants,  she  truly  gave  neither  any  proper  right  to  suppose  that 
he  was  held  in  highest  favor.  But  never  was  innocent  lady  more 
civil !  And  both  gallants,  we  may  add,  began  soon  to  entertain 
equal  hopes,  especially  as  the  bal  masque  was  in  progress. 


THE   DEAD    ALIVE.  863 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

THE    DEAD    ALIVE. 

"  I  dreamt  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead  ! 
(Strange  dream  !  that  gives  a  dead  man  leave  to  think), 
And  breathed  such  life,  with  kisses,  on  my  lips, 

That  I  revived  ! 

Ah  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possessed, 

When  but  Love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy !"  —  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

"Why  look  you  so  upon  me? 

I  am  but  sorry ;  not  afraid."  —  Winter's  Tale. 

THIS  life  with  all  its  ridiculous  contrasts  !  Farce  and  tragedy ; 
melodrame  and  pantomime  ;  Melpomene  and  Punchinello  ! 

Here,  in  one  dwelling,  you  see  the  chamber  of  death  —  the  pall 
and  the  bier.  Before  the  entrance  stands  the  hearse,  that  melan 
choly  coach  of  state.  From  the  chamber  ascends  the  wail  of  one 
who  will  not  be  comforted.  Rachel  weeping  for  her  first-born ; 
David,  in  the  mixed  agonies  of  remorse  and  wo,  lamenting  the 
son  torn  from  him  as  the  punishment  of  his  crime.  The  cloud, 
black  with  penal  thunders,  hangs  over  the  dwelling;  and  from  the 
midst  of  it  issues  a  mighty  hand,  shaking  out  fiery  bolts ! 

Next  door,  they  have  a  dinner  and  a  guest  to-day,  and  all  the 
young  ladies  are  agog  with  expectation.  The  coming  visiter  is  a 
millionaire  ;  and  each  one  studies,  in  the  pages  of  the  siren,  how 
best  to  fascinate  and  fix ! 

Or,  there  is  a  ball  to-night,  and  the  fiddles  are  already  in  requi 
sition  ;  or,  Darby  and  Joan,  no  longer  placid,  are  at  odds  touching 
the  roast ;  or,  the  alderman  dreams,  after  a  monstrous  surfeit,  that 
he  is  engaged  in  the  labors  of  Sisyphus.  What  you  will  —  the 
contrast  is  sufficiently  ludicrous. 

These  atrocious  truisms  !  we  can  not  escape  them,  though  we  try. 


364  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Now,  while  the  amiable  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  and  the  lovely 
simpleton,  Spanish  wife,  and  the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven,  are 
each  eager  in  the  chase  of  their  several  butterflies,  rollicking  at 
"  High  Jinks"  in  the  parlor,  you  see  the  cassique  of  Accabee, 
with  heavy  head  resting  in  his  palms ;  heavier  heart,  with  noth 
ing  upon  which  to  rest ;  moody  with  a  grief  for  which  there  is  no 
comforter ;  his  whole  life  and  hope  resolved  into  a  settled  compact 
with  wo  and  desolation  ;  disappointment  that  dries  up  the  sources 
of  hope ;  defeat  that  hangs  like  a  millstone  around  the  neck  of 
the  spent  swimmer ! 

He  strikes  out  wildly,  like  the  blind  wrestler,  in  the  air ;  and 
the  blows,  though  they  fall  upon  vacancy,  exhaust  his  vigor.  He 
works,  madly  enough,  when  thought  becomes  too  terrible  for  en 
durance.  But  the  spectre  clings  to  his  side  like  a  shadow.  He 
builds ;  would  improve ;  has  tastes  that  still  plead  for  gratifica 
tion ;  energies  that  will  not  suffer  themselves  to  be  denied:  but 
these  no  longer  minister  to  his  satisfaction ;  no  longer  offer  refuge 
to  thought ;  no  longer  resupply  the  fountains  of  pride,  and  hope, 
and  pleasure,  to  his  soul. 

It  is  amazing  to  see  how  he  works,  physically  as  well  as  with 
thought ;  amazing  to  see  what  his  own  head  and  hands  have  done, 
in  very  few  days,  in  that  new  baronial  domain  which  he  has 
planted  for  other  generations  in  the  wilderness.  His  workmen, 
used  to  labor,  are  confounded.  He  keeps  their  muscles  on  the 
stretch,  but  with  no  such  tension  as  his  own  must  endure.  And 
they  know  nothing  of  that  agony  of  brain  and  soul  which  is  goad 
ing  his  limbs  to  their  incessant  exercise.  He  does  not  groan  or 
murmur — declares  no  suffering  in  speech  !  He  is  not  only  build 
ing  houses,  and  laying  off  routes  and  fences  —  doing  after  a  merely 
necessary  plan  and  fashion  —  he  does  more:  he  plans  terraces  of 
beauty  ;  is  opening  artificial  fishponds  ;  he  will  have  Art  confront 
N~ature  in  her  own  empire,  and  challenge  the  supremacy.  There 
are  gardeners  from  Holland  —  which,  about  that  time,  was  furnish 
ing  the  general  models  for  landscape-gardening  for  Europe  —  but 
he  too  will  design,  at  least  to  such  a  degree  as  to  mcdify  the  for 
malities  of  the  Dutch  taste,  and,  in  bringing  Nature  to  a  better 
knowledge  of  Art,  not  suffering  the  latter  to  subvert  any  of  those 
charms  of  the  former  which  we  should  only  injure  in  the  effort  t$ 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  365 

And  m  all  these  labors,  though  in  everything  he  exhibits  marked 
intelligence  and  taste,  he  performs  mechanically.  His  heart  is  no 
longer  in  his  work.  His  eyes  wander  from  it — wander  off  per 
petually  in  contemplation  of  that  gloomy  thundercloud  that  over 
hangs  his  house  and  heart.  Ho  is  looking  momently  to  see  it 
part  —  to  see  this  hand  of  Judgment  shaking  free  the  bolt  which  is 
to  strike  down  work  and  workman  in  one  common  ruin ! 

Ah  !  this  is  very  terrible  —  this  picture  of  the  strong  man  using 
his  strength  after  a  wonted  habit,  but  with  no  longer  love  for  his 
work  ;  still  fighting  bravely  with  the  adverse  hosts  of  Fate,  though 
he  well  knows  that  he  fights  under  a  doom — that,  however  long 
delayed,  the  bolt  must  fall,  and  the  ruin  be  complete ! 

It  is  already  complete.  He  has  lost  all  —  all  that  he  holds  pre 
cious.  He  can  lose  no  more.  His  grand  hope  of  heart  and  life 
has  proved  a  grand  defeat ;  and  the  defeat  is  irreparable  ! 

What  remains?  The  battle  is  over  —  so  he  himself  thinks: 
but  it  is  for  him  now  to  bury  his  dead ;  to  cleanse  the  field  of  its 
bloody  trophies  ;  to  hide  the  horrid  proofs  from  sight ;  and,  this 
done  — whither  for  him  ?  Whither  shall  he  fly  ?  Why  fly  ?  He 
can  not  escape  his  own  memories  —  his  own  consciousness  of  what 
has  been  his  hope  —  what  has  been  the  agony  in  its  being  —  and 
that  it  is  no  more  a  hope  !  He  can  neither  fly  from  Memory  nor 
fly  to  Hope.  The  dead  Past,  with  all  its  horrors,  is  bound  irrev 
ocably  to  his  still  living  soul ! 

He  broods,  even  while  at  work ;  and  if  he  leaves  his  work,  in 
the  very  exhaustion  of  his  physical  nature,  it  is  again  to  brood. 

But  not  over  his  own  griefs  and  disappointments.  No,  no  ! 
Do  the  brave  man  no  injustice.  His  cares  are  not  selfish.  He 
broods  over  another's  fate.  Unseen,  he  watches  the  victim  —  ah  ! 
mockery  to  speak  it  —  the  victim  of  his  own  very  love!  His 
strong  passion  and  her  weak  will  have,  together,  bound  her  to  the 
rock,  and  fastened  the  vulture  on  her  dovelike  bosom! 

He  broods  with  the  vainest  question,  evermore  recurring,  what 
may  be  done,  that  she  be  saved?  How  save  her?  —  not  simply 
from  death  and  pain,  but  from  that  torture  which  momently  threat 
ens  her  with  madness  L  He  has  again  had  the  physician  to  her  aid ; 
but  art  has  failed  in  such  a  case.  He  has  brought  with  him  neither 
hope  nor  comforter ;  and  the  brave  but  anguished  man  looks  on 
her  with  eyes  of  stony  fixedness,  yet  of  lightning-like  avidity,  as 


3G6  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH 

if  he  strove  to  penetrate  the  shut  avenues  of  her  woman-soul,  to 
see  v  aere  lay  the  particular  hurt  to  which  Love,  denied  itself, 
might  yet  bring  balm,  if  not  healing. 

And  never  was  scrutiny  more  circumspect,  as  well  as  keen. 
She  was  suffered  to  see  nothing  of  his  eager  watch  —  to  suspect 
nothing  of  his  intense  interest  and  scrutiny ;  though,  perhaps,  it 
does  not  much  matter  what  she  sees,  or  what  she  may  suspect.  In 
the  state  of  mental  extasie  which  prevails  with  her,  she  hardly 
seems  to  be  conscious  of  external  things,  or  any  objects  of  the 
mere  outer  sense.  She,  too,  is  looking  through  a  fate-cloud ;  not 
for  the  bolt,  but  for  the  receiving  angel  —  the  soothing,  saving, 
lifting — who  is  to  bear  her  to  the  joy  of  heaven,  or  its  peace ! 

If  she  showed  any  solicitude  —  and  this  was  the  keenest  pang 
that  he  was  required  to  endure  —  it  was  how  to  escape  his  eyes, 
his  presence,  his  companionship,  the  consciousness  of  his  exist 
ence,  the  recollection  of  his  rights  in  herself !  She  taught  him 
this  in  every  movement.  He  had  become,  in  the  acuteness  of  his 
own  griefs,  as  sensitive  to  every  mood  of  her  soul  as  to  the  keen 
agonies  that  strove  within  his  own.  He  shivered,  with  a  sort  of 
horror,  at  the  mournful  conviction,  which  he  could  not  repel,  that 
his  simple  presence  had  grown  to  be  a  terror  to  her  imagination. 

And,  though  dying,  absolutely  dying  —  though  this  fact  was 
scarcely  conceived  by  any  but  himself —  Olive  yet  walked  about 
life,  apparently  unhurt.  She  could  sing  —  she  was  now  for  ever 
singing,  however  unconsciously,  to  herself —  and  oh,  with  what  a 
touching,  tearful  sweetness,  bringing  involuntary  moisture  to  other 
eyes !  She  sang  over,  one  by  one,  all  the  sweet  love-songs  of  her 
girlhood  —  her  childhood  even  —  whenever  she  felt  herself  alone. 
And  sometimes  she  did  not  seem  to  heed  the  presence  of  others, 
but  sang  on,  apparently  never  beholding  them,  and  looking,  speak 
ing,  singing,  just  as  if  she  were  alone.  She  sang  the  gayest  dit 
ties,  which,  as  you  saw  the  singer,  melted  you  to  sorrow ;  and 
sometimes  the  merest  lullabies,  which  made  you  smile  through 
your  tears,  though  you  wept  afterward.  And,  even  as  she  sang, 
she  walked  the  house  like  a  spectre  ;  sought  commerce  with  none  ; 
walked  incessantly,  with  the  strangest  restlessness  ;  wandered  into 
the  neighboring  woods,  all  alone  ;  strnngely  satisfied  with  —  nay 
feeding  upon  —  their  solitude  and  silence  ! 

The  workmen  beheld  her  pass,  and  shook  their  heads.     Sbe 


THE   DEAD    ALIVE.  367 

saw  them  not  —  that  strange  woman  —  yet  hurried  by  them  with 
a  fitful  chant  or  murmured  ballad.  They  knew  not  that  she  was 
dying ;  yet  they  felt,  by  instinct,  that  she  had  been  struck,  heart- 
deep,  by  some  invisible  arrow.  They  saw  it  in  her  dazed  and 
wandering  eyes,  that  seemed  looking  out,  gazing,  yet  seeing  noth 
ing  ;  in  the  wonderfully  white  transparency  of  her  skin,  the  deli 
cacy  of  which  was  marvellous  in  any  mortal  creature.  She  ate 
little,  but  she  had  ceased  to  moan.  She  did  not  sigh.  Her 
mother  heard  nothing  but  her  singing,  and  the  burden  of  that 
seemed  to  say  simply  : — 

"  Let  me  be  alone — let  me  be  alone  !  Do  you  not  see  that  I 
am  at  peace  ?  Do  n't  you  hear  that  I  can  sing  ?  I  am  happy 
now !" 

And  the  mother  began  to  fancy  now  that  she  was  doing  well-  - 
that  she  would  soon  be  better  —  that  the  song  implied  health  and 
increasing  strength  ;  and  she  began  to  renew  her  prattle  of  world- 
wise  maxims  and  dull  commonplaces,  you  may  be  sure.  And 
then  the  poor  child  smiled  ;  but  such  smiling !  There  was  no  sat 
ire  in  the  smile ;  but  it  was  of  such  ghastly  simplicity  and  vague 
ness,  that  the  other  was  usually  silenced  by  it.  There  was  some 
thing  in  it  which  terrified  her ;  and  she  would  stop  in  her  speech, 
bewildered.  It  was  enough  for  her  victim  that  she  would  thus 
stop.  The  commonplaces  of  her  mother,  and  her  worldly  coun 
sels,  had  grown  to  an  eldritch  and  ominous  sort  of  voicing  in  the 
ears  of  the  child.  She  dreaded  them ;  they  somehow  usually 
checked  her  song ;  and  it  was  only  when  the  mother  ceased  to 
speak,  that  she  resumed  her  chanting — chanting  it  was,  a  sort  of 
blended  sobbing  and  murmur  —  and  then  the  silly  mother  would 
say  to  herself: — 

"  As  long  as  she  can  sing,  she  will  do.  She  is  evidently  grow 
ing  better  and  stronger ;  she  will  be  better  soon.  Hearts  do  n't 
break  so  easily.  And  what  is  there  in  her  case  to  make  the  heart 
break  ?  No  !  she  will  recover  soon.  I  am  glad  always  when  I 
hear  her  sing." 

The  silly  old  woman  !     It  was  the  death-song  of  the  swan ! 

And  the  cassique  watched  her  all  the  while  —  saw  everything 
—  understood  all.  He  knew,  spite  of  the  song  and  the  smile,  that 
his  wife  was  dying  ! 

His  instincts  were  all  alive  with  this  consciousness.     But  he< 


368  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  strong  man  —  who  felt  himself  so  strong  —  who  had  hitherto 
been  strong  enough  for  everything  —  he  groaned  in  spirit  as  he 
now  felt  himself  powerless.  He  said  to  himself: — 

"  She  will  die  !     Nothing  can  save  her  !" 

And  the  next  thought  was : — 

"  And  I  have  brought  her  to  this  !  However  innocent  of  evil, 
or  selfish  purpose,  I  have  brought  her  to  this.  And  I  can  not 
save ;  I  can  not  repair.  The  bolt  is  inevitable  !" 

And,  so  thinking,  he  watched  and  toiled  :  watched  in  agony  and 
gloom ;  toiled  in  the  sunshine  without  feeling  it ;  toiled  to  create 
a  home  of  art,  and  taste,  and  beauty ;  while  he  yet  well  knew 
that  she  for  whom  chiefly  he  had  dreamed  and  designed  the  whole, 
would  see,  feel,  taste,  enjoy,  none  of  the  delights  of  life  or  home 
—  would  appreciate  none  of  these  loving  cares,  which  appealed 
to  no  other  sympathies  than  hers. 

Ah !  dear  brethren,  ye  who  struggle  on  gallantly  in  this  mortal 
conflict,  so  trying  to  —  so  meant  to  try  —  our  human  heroism,  this 
is  the  saddest  of  all  our  soul-disappointments.  To  love,  and  toil, 
and  think,  and  struggle,  all  equally  in  vain :  the  beloved  one  will 
not  see  or  feel  how  great  has  been  our  care  to  prove  the  merit 
and  the  beauty  in  our  love ! 

You  have  made  your  Eden  —  the  best  that  you  could  make  — 
fitting  for  the  best  angel  that  you  know.  You  are  in  possession ; 
you  would  put  her  in  possession.  Yet,  somehow,  the  serpent  of 
Fate  has  crept  in,  and  keeps  out  the  dove  of  Peace,  if  not  of  In 
nocence.  It  is  the  old  experience.  The  shaft  of  Ahrimanes  has 
pierced  the  egg  of  Ormusd ! 

And,  while  the  eyes  of  the  cassique  were  thus  mournfully  at 
watch  over  the  progress  of  that  cruel  Fate  which  was  thus  busy 
in  the  destruction  of  all  his  architectural  felicities,  he  wot  not  of 
those  other,  those  kindred  eyes,  which  were  quite  as  keen  though 
not  so  well  informed  as  his  own,  in  a  like  watch  over  the  same 
precincts.  There  were  other  eyes  that  studied  and  watched  as 
intensely,  though  with  less  freedom,  over  the  fate  of  that  beloved 
object,  who  seemed  so  indifferent  to  every  care  —  eyes  full  of  a 
like  anxiety,  perhaps  of  even  superior  agony,  to  his.  How  like, 
yet  how  unlike,  but  not  less  intense  with  passion  than  his  own ! 

And  those  were  the  eyes  of  a  brother  —  the  brother  he  had 
once  loved,  but  so  greatly  yet  unwittingly  wronged ;  whose  hear' 


THE   DEAD    ALIVE.  369 

of  hearts  lie  had  so  lately  understood,  but  whose  wounds,  he  still 
fancied,  had  all  been  healed  by  Death.  That,  alone,  was  the  con 
soling  thought  of  Edward  Berkeley,  when  he  reflected  upon  the 
defeat  of  heart  and  hope  in  the  case  of  his  brother  Harry.  A  saa 
sort  of  consolation,  but  not  to  be  rejected  in  such  a  case,  and 
where  the  living  wo  was  of  so  keen  a  character. 

How  little  did  he  dream  of  that  brother's  watch,  unless  from 
the  clouds !  As  a  spirit,  he  thought,  Harry  Berkeley  will  know 
that,  wittingly,  his  brother  had  never  done  him  wrong.  Suppo 
sing  him  still  to  be  an  inhabitant  of  earth,  and  thus  watching, 
what  would  be  his  emotions  !  How  could  he  explain  —  how  re 
pair  ?  He  would  do  both,  were  this  possible ;  for  never,  in  truth, 
did  brother  love  more  fondly  than  our  cassique. 

The  deep  love,  the  heart-instincts  of  Olive,  had  made  her  more 
conscious,  if  not  wiser.  Her  fancies,  now  wholly  spiritual,  had 
conjured  Harry  Berkeley  from  his  imagined  grave  beneath  the 
seas.  She  felt  that  he  lived.  He  had  brought  an  atmosphere 
with  him,  into  which,  though  in  dreams  of  the  midnight  only,  her 
soul  could  penetrate.  Her  thought,  though  a  madness  to  all  oth 
ers,  was  with  her  a  conviction.  She  felt  that  Harry  Berkeley 
was  beside  her !  In  her  mind's  eye  he  was  ever  present.  She 
heard  his  voice  in  the  silence  of  the  night.  Her  soul  grew  more 
seeing  as  she  approached  the  time  when  it  should  cast  off  ?11  its 
impediments  of  clay.  Ah !  this  divine  soul,  what  an  all-seeing 
thing  it  is,  if  we  only  suffer  it  to  use  its  wing ! 

She  was  right,  even  in  her  sense  of  the  experience  that  kept  her 
conscious.  The  living  Harry  Berkeley,  even  now,  in  yonder  primi 
tive,  forest,  keeps  watch  for  her  —  a  loving  watch ;  looks  terribly  out 
011  the  cassique  —  mournfully  enough,  as  so  terrible :  even  as  the 
three  melancholy  sisters,  who  are  appointed  to  carry  fate  in  their 
foreheads,  and  to  send  the  shaft  at  every  glance,  look  over  all ! 

You  see  them,  perhaps,  in  the  de'-p  shadow  upon  the  cassique's 
brow;  in  the  wild  glare  that  sometimes  gleams  out  from  the  eyes 
of  Harry  Berkeley ;  in  the  beautiful  death,  which  flickers,  like  a 
star,  lily-like  and  pale,  in  every  feature  of  the  sweetly-spiritualized 
face  of  Olive. 

Which  shall  perish  first?  They  all  glide  along  the  precipice, 
and  below  them  the  gulf  is  ready  !  Which  shall  first  succumb 
beneath  the  stroke  ?  They  are  all,  possibly,  in  equal  peril ;  for 

16* 


370  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

there  are  deadly  passions,  busy  in  the  hearts  of  these  strong  men, 
which,  with  but  a  change  of  the  moon,  a  caprice  of  the  winds,  or 
perchance  the  stars,  shall  help  to  do  the  work  of  Fate ! 

Our  rover,  toiling  hourly  like  the  cassique,  his  brother,  with  like 
earnestness  of  character  and  energy  —  toiling,  too,more  in  the  behalf 
of  others  than  his  own  —  suffers  from  a  like  sense  of  isolation  and 
wo ;  but  there  is  no  pang  of  remorse  in  his  passion  ;  and  he  has 
one  solace,  which  gives  him  succor  —  in  the  sense  of  indignation! 

He  has  been  wronged.  He  errs,  it  is  true,  in  the  belief  that 
the  wrong  is  done  him  by  his  brother.  But  this  makes  no  differ 
ence  in  the  character  of  the  strength  which  he  derives  from  the 
conviction.  It  is  certain  that  he  has  been  wronged  ;  but,  whether 
by  him,  by  her,  or  by  the  mother,  matters  not.  There  is  an  equal 
solace  in  the  double  fact  that  he  can  reproach  himself  with  no 
wrong  in  the  history,  and  that  his  own  wrongs  are  certain.  They 
demand  a  victim ! 

We  must  not  conceal  from  ourselves  the  truth  that  the  demon 
has  entered  his  soul  along  with  the  iron  ;  that  the  gaunt,  famish 
ing  passion  for  vengeance,  is  muttering  within  his  bosom,  goading 
him  on  in  search  after  the  victim,  and  with  an  eagerness  which  he 
himself  does  not  conjecture. 

But,  as  now  we  see  him,  with  ready  weapon  by  his  side,  the 
hilt  of  which  he  sometimes  clutches  convulsively,  we  know  that 
his  blood  will  work  upon  his  brain,  to  terrible  results  of  action, 
the  moment  that  the  occasion  shall  occur  which  shall  bid  him 
strike. 

He  has  been  busied,  with  all  that  calm,  methodical  will  and 
judgment,  which  men  of  action  and  character  attain  through  habit. 
He  has  gone  to  the  hollow  tree,  where  the  sheaf  of  Indian  arrows, 
betokening  the  gradual  progress  of  an  evil  purpose  to  the  bloody 
event,  has  been  hidden  away.  He  has  counted  the  remaining 
shafts  with  deliberate  care,  and  knows  that  the  hour  of  savage 
outbreak  rapidly  approaches.  He  has  duly  made  his  preparations 
for  it.  He  has  warned  Gowdey,  at  the  block-house,  to  keep  his 
rangers  in  readiness  ;  he  has  given  his  last  instructions  to  Belcher, 
who  is  still  in  town,  as  to  the  course  which  he  is  to  pursue  at  a 
certain  hour ;  and  he  now  calmly  reviews  the  necessities  of  the 
whole  event,  having  prepared  for  it,  as  well  as  he  might,  with  his 
own  unassisted  resources  of  mind  and  money.  His  warnings 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  371 

have  fallen,  with  Hide  effect,  upon  the  ears  of  Governor  Quarry. 
And  lie  is  in  no  situation  to  warn  his  brother.  He  will  save  his 
household,  if  he  can,  without  taxing  its  own  resources.  He  can 
not  do  otherwise.  Though  lost  to  himself  for  ever  —  nay,  dying, 
though  he  knows  not  that  —  Olive  Berkeley  must  be  saved  — 
Olive  Berkeley  and  her  child ! 

But  we  have  no  need  here  to  review  his  relations,  or  anticipate 
his  further  purposes.  Enough  that,  with  his  vigilant  mind,  nothing 
has  been  forgotten  :  and  he  thinks  of  ship  and  crew ;  the  con 
spirators  who  would  run  up  the  "Jolly  Roger;"  the  simple  Span 
ish  wife,  who  is  playing  at  "  High  Jinks"  with  the»-Honorable 
Keppel  Craven  ;  all  the  parties  dear  to  his  regards  or  to  his  re 
venges —  with  the  stern  resolve  and  the  calm  judgment  with  which 
one,  seated  on  a  mount  of  power,  looks  down  upon  the  plains,  and 
regulates,  without  an  emotion,  the  fortunes  of  the  blind  multitudes 
who  toil  or  sport  below  ! 

So  Harry  Calvert,  otherwise  Berkeley,  watched  the  manor  of 
Kiawah.  Great  had  been  the  progress  of  the  cassique,  since  our 
rover  had  first  begun  his  watch.  Houses  had  been  run  np ; 
grounds  laid  out ;  pickets  and  fences  erected ;  order  had  taken 
place  of  confusion  ;  Civilization  was  asserting  itself  over  Nature  ; 
comfort  had  succeeded  to  the  crude  and  wild  ;  and,  though  still 
rough  and  rude,  the  scene  already  began  to  exhibit  many  of  the 
attractions  of  beauty. 

Harry  Calvert  watched  the  progress  with  mingled  emotions  of 
sweet  and  bitter,  and  with  increasing  interest.  When  his  brother 
came  upon  the  scene,  or  the  mother  of  Olive,  then  he  writhed 
with  a  restless  feeling  of  indignation  and  revolting ;  then  he  felt 
like  strife  and  curses  ! 

But  there  was  an  atmosphere  over  all  that  tended,  in  some  de 
gree,  to  soothe  this  bitterness.     The  very  spectacle  of  Art  laboring 
to  subdue  the  wild  and  uncouth  in  Nature,  was  itself  a  spell  upon 
the  savage  mood.     And  when  manhood  was  striving  in  his  sight 
and  the  energetic  woodman  was  busy  everywhere,  laying  the  ax 
to  the  root  of  the  mightiest  forms ;  Labor,  like  a  giant,  grappling 
with  the  gnarled  oak,  and  the  tough,  resinous  pine,  and  the  tow 
ering,  gray  cypress  —  admiration  naturally  got  the  better  of  smaller, 
selfish  emotions :  and  the  spectator,  not  forgetting  his  own  cares, 
was  yet  compelled  to  admit  the  ennobling  influence  of  a  moral 


372  THK    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

power  in  the  objects  of  his  survey  ;  and  this  consciousness  ever 
appeals  gratefully  to  the  like  sense  of  power  in  our  own  souls, 
subduing  in  some  degree  their  own  consciousness  of  self. 

As  yet,  he  had  looked  in  vain  for  the  one  presence  whom  over 
all  he  sought.  Once,  he  had  got  a  glimpse  of  Olive,  as  he  fan 
cied  ;  and  she  seemed  bending  her  way  from  the  dwelling  to  the 
very  covert  in  which  he  harbored :  but  it  was  almost  dusk,  and, 
just  then,  several  of  the  workmen,  with  the  cassique  at  their  head, 
approached  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  and  proceeded  to  lay  off  the 
grounds  in  that  quarter,  previous  to  the  overthrow  of  certain  ob 
jectionable  trees.  ,At  this  sight,  the  figure  of  Olive  —  if,  indeed, 
'twere  hers  —  disappeared  again  within  the  shadows  of  the  house. 

He  frequently  caught  a  sight  of  her  younger  sister,  Grace,  whom 
he  well  remembered ;  a  lovely  child  of  twelve  years,  tall  and  fair, 
and  promising  to  become  almost  as  great  a  beauty  as  Olive.  And 
when  he  saw  Grace,  she  was  usually  accompanied  by  the  young 
Indian  hunter,  whom  she  tasked  to  teach  her  the  use  of  bow  and 
arrow,  and  how  to  set  snares  for  squirrels,  and  traps  for  birds ; 
and  who  promised  —  neglected  as  she  seemed  to  be  by  the  whole 
household,  in  consequence  of  the  superior  cares  from  which  all 
other  parties  suffered  —  to  become  almost  as  wild  as  the  red-bo^ 
of  the  wilderness.  He  had  snared  for  her  a  yearling  doe,  and 
was  teaching  her  how  best  to  tame  it.  It  was  surprising  how 
completely  he  himself  had  already  brought  the  wild  creature  to 
docility.  It  licked  from  his  hand,  but  could  not  yet  be  persuaded 
to  lick  from  hers ;  and  it  thrust  its  nose  into  the  boy's  face,  but 
shrank  back  when  the  girl  would  have  kissed  and  hugged  it. 

And  thus  were  these  two  children  exercised  in  the  grounds, 
while  Harry  Berkeley  kept  his  watch  over  them  on  this  very  oc 
casion.  The  scene  helped,  in  some  degree,  to  soothe  his  more 
savage  humors. 

He  had  thus  watched  through  a  part  of  the  day,  with  but  few 
intervals.  That  melancholy  watch !  from  day  to  day,  profitlessly 
pursued ;  to  the  increase  of  his  unhappy  moods ;  to  the  wasting 
of  his  frame,  for  he  was  growing  wan  and  thin ;  and  to  the  satis 
faction,  thus  far,  of  no  single  hope  or  fancy ! 

The  day  was  waning.  The  evening  sun  was  purpling  tenderly 
the  great  waving  pine-tops,  and  shooting  slanting  streaks  of  rosy 
light  over  the  openings  in  the  forest ;  and  the  heart  of  the  strong 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  873 

man  sickened  sadly  as  he  felt  the  rapid  approach  of  another  night 
of  exhausting  meditation  and  disappointment.  At  a  distance,  on 
the  opposite  quarter  of  the  opening,  he  sees  the  workmen  busy 
with  beams  and  timbers.  His  brother  is  not  visible.  The  girl 
and  the  Indian  boy  have  also  strayed  away  to  a  field  which  is 
waving  in  rye  —  one  of  the  few  grains,  aside  from  maize,  the  cul 
ture  of  which  had  yet  been  attempted  at  the  barony.  The  mur 
murs  of  life  and  toil,  removed  from  the  immediate  precinct,  had 
almost  ceased  to  sound  in  the  ears  of  our  rover.  The  squirrels 
were  leaping  about  him,  suddenly  appearing  to  feed  at  sunset, 
and  no  longer  disturbed  by  the  workmen.  And  he,  too,  depressed 
by  the  scene  —  by  its  silence,  by  his  own  weariness  of  watch,  by 
the  disappointment  which  had  hitherto  attended  it  —  was  about  to 
turn  away,  take  his  horse,  and  canter  off  to  the  ship,  which  he 
needed  that  night  to  visit ;  when  he  suddenly  felt  his  whole  frame 
thrill  with  a  strange  and  mixed  emotion,  as  a  sound,  half  song. 
half  murmur,  touched  his  senses. 

Looking  up,  he  beheld  Olive  moving  slowly  through  the  grove 
toward  hhn.  Her  hands  were  clasped  and  lifted  up,  and  swayed 
aloft  in  air ;  while  her  eyes  were  raised  also,  her  head  resting 
slightly  on  one  side,  as  if  she  were  gazing  through  the  tree-tops. 
And  thus,  with  glances  that  sought  nothing  below,  she  came  tow 
ard  him,  her  lips  still  parting,  unconsciously,  in  song  and  murmur. 

She  was  clad  in  white,  a  loose,  simple  dress,  as  unstudied  as 
that  of  the  Grecian  damsel,  going  to  the  spring  for  water,  in  the 
days  of  Iphigenia  and  Andromache.  And  how  wondrously  beau 
tiful  she  looked  in  that  simple,  white  costume !  Her  pale,  trans 
parent  skin  ;  the  ecstatic  elevation  of  her  dark-blue  eyes  ;  the  ex 
quisite  purity  and  delicacy  of  air,  carriage,  manner,  all  betoken 
ing  a  perfect  grace ;  arid  so  spiritualized  —  so  utterly  free  from 
earthly  taint  —  that,  without  seeking  to  define  thought  or  con 
sciousness  to  ask,  "What  is  this  that  approaches  me?" — Harrj 
Berkeley  felt  awed,  subdued,  hallowed ;  every  human  emotion 
schooled,  in  sudden  subjection,  and  even  shame,  as  if,  indeed,  a 
spirit  stood  before  him. 

He  moved  not.  He  was  spell-bound  by  the  long-desired  but 
unexpected  sight ! 

She  came  on,  meanwhile,  unseeing ;  her  eyes  still  looking  up 
ward ;  her  lips  still  murmuring,  in  song;  no,  not  song  —  some- 


374  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

thing  like  the  dreamy  chant  of  revery,  when  the  lips  part  and  we 
know  not,  and  there  is  a  speech  that  rather  reveals  an  emotion 
than  a  thought,  or  sentiment,  or  wish,  or  care. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  —  nay, -he  had  not  the  power  —  to  stand 
aside,  and  let  her  pass.  He  stood,  frozen  as  it  were,  beneath  a 
wondrous  presence  ;  and  her  course  was  arrested  only  when  she 
was  actually  in  contact  with  his  outstretched  arms,  which  he  lifted 
involuntarily  as  she  drew  nigh. 

Then,  her  lips  ceased  to  murmur.  Then,  her  eyes  were  let 
down  ;  and,  as  she  saw  him,  she  cried  out,  and  threw  herself  upon 
his  bosom,  with  a  faint,  short  sobbing,  intermingled  with  the  bro 
ken  words  — 

"It  is  no  dream  —  no  dreamr-  I  know  'tis  he!  —  my  Harry! 
my  Harry !" 

He  wrapped  her  instinctively  in  his  close  embrace  —  close  — 
close  —  even  as  the  dying  man  grasps  convulsively,  and  with  ago 
nizing  tenacity,  the  dear  form  which  he  feels  he  is  about  to  lose 
for  ever.  He  had  but  a  single  word  — 

"  Olive !" 

And  this  was  spoken  in  such  low,  murmured  tones,  that  it  is 
doubtful  if  she  heard  him.  But  her  lips  answered  to  him  still : — 

"I  knew  'twas  you  !     I  knew  that  you  would  come  !" 

"  Death  should  not  keep  me  from  you,  Olive." 

"  No,  no !  I  knew  that,  Harry  !  I  believed  you  when  you  told 
me  so  before.  But  I  did  not  feel  you  then,  as  now.  And  you 
left  me  so  soon !  You  would  go !  Why  did  you  go  ?  I  have 
been  looking  for  you  the  last  three  nights ;  and  oh,  how  I  have 
kissed  the  pillow  where  your  head  had  lain !" 

He  was  bewildered  at  these  words.  He  would  have  gazed 
into  her  face  for  explanation,  but  that  was  buried  in  his  bosom. 
She  never  once  looked  up  ;  and,  as  she  continued  to  murmur,  with 
a  sort  of  sobbing  joy,  brokenly  and  with  such  sweet  pathos,  he 
felt  that  her  mind  wandered  —  that  she  labored  under  some  strange 
illusions  ;  while  her  evident  frailness  of  form,  as  she  clung  to  him  — 
the  thin,  wan  fingers,  as  she  grasped  his  neck  —  too  plainly  de 
clared  her  physical  decline. 

"  Did  you  think  that  I  would  desert  you,  Olive  ?" 

"  Desert  me  ?  You  ! — never  !  Oh,  no  !  I  knew  better.  But 
you  were  dead  !  Ah  !  that  was  the  dreadful  thing.  Drowned  in 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  375 

the  deep  sea  —  in  the  great  ocean  !  The  big,  black  billows  tum 
bling  over  you,  until  you  sunk,  sunk,  sunk  —  down,  down,  down 
—  so  that  I  might  never  see  you  more !" 

"  And  you  believed  this,  Olive  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  knew,  at  first,  it  was  all  true.  But,  afterward, 
Harry,  I  could  not  feel  you  dead !  And  when  I  heard  you  call 
ing  to  me  from  the  waters,  and  when  you  came  and  took  me  in 
your  arms  by  night,  then  I  knew  that  they  had  told  me  false !  I 
knew  it  was  no  dream.  I  had  you  again  ;  had  you  in  my  arm.;  — 
close  to  me,  and  your  warm  kisses  were  upon  my  lips  —  and  they 
had  no  taste  of  death.  But,  O  Harry,  you  did  stay  away  so  long !" 

"  I  am  come  now,  Olive  —  I  am  come  at  last ;  and  we  shall 
never  part  again  !" 

"  No,  no  !  never  part  again  !  Beware  of  that,  Harry.  Don't 
leave  me  again,  Harry ;  for  you  know  not  what  they  say  to  me 
when  you  are  gone.  And  sometimes  they  make  me  believe  it  all, 
it  is  so  like  the  truth.  But  I  have  you  now,  and  you  will  never 
again  leave  me,  Harry  ?  No  more  partings  !  We  shall  have 
everything  safe  now,  and  happy!  No  horrid  drowning  —  no 
death  —  no  storms  —  no  seas;  only  the  sweet  willows  at  dear  old 
Feltham." 

"  My  poor,  poor  Olive !"  was  the  exclamation,  groaned  rathei 
than  spoken,  by  Harry  Berkeley  — 

"  My  poor,  poor  Olive,  you  have  suffered  sadly,  but  I  am  come 
I  am  here,  Olive  ;  and  I  am  a  man  !  You  are  mine  —  I  yours 
and  let  me  see  the  man,  or  woman,  who  shall  torture  you  again 
O  God,  would  I  had  come  sooner !" 

By  this  time,  Harry  Berkeley  was  wiser  in  respect  to  the  con 
dition  of  Olive  Berkeley.  He  saw  that  she  was  doomed:  ha 
knew  not  that  she  was  dying!  Yet  he  somehow  fait  that  a  great 
thundercloud  overhung  her  life  and  his  own.  He  bared  his  bo 
som  to  the  bolt;  he  defied  it.  There  was  a  proud,  imperious,  if 
not  triumphant  spirit,  that  seized  him  —  strange  to  say,  almost  as 
the  natural  consequence  of  his  discovery  of  her  leal  condition. 
It  was  a  sacred  madness.  She  was  doomed;  and  he  —  reckless 
as  despairing !  He  lifted  her  from  his  bosom  —  held  her  off  — 
gazed  with  a  long,  passionate  vehemence  in  her  eyes,  and  cried  — 

"  Yes,  by  the  God  who  sees,  you  are  mine  —  mine  only,  Olive 
Masterton !" 


376  THE    CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Berkeley  —  Berkeley.     You  forget,  Harry." 

"  Olive  Berkeley,  you  are  mine  only !  From  this  moment  you 
are  mine  for  ever !  They  have  lied  to  you.  But  they  shall  lie 
to  you  no  longer.  The  woods  of  Feltham  —  the  sweet  old  wil 
lows  !  Come —  come,  Olive  !  It  is  Harry  that  says,  '  Come  !' " 

«  Dear  Harry !" 

He  shared  her  frenzy.  The  one  look  which  he  had  taken  of 
her  wan  face  seemed  to  madden  him.  Again  he  clasped  her  to 
his  bosom,  and  she  sank  upon  it  unresistingly. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  to  the  Feltham  willows,  Olive.  We  shall  be  happy 
now." 

"  O  Harry,  yes  —  so  happy !" 

"  Come  —  come !" 

And  he  bore  her  away,  not  heeding  that  she  lifted  no  limb  —  that 
she  hung  heavily  upon  him  —  by  this  time,  seemingly,  as  wholly 
unconscious  of  his  grasp  as  he  was  of  the  burden  which  he  bore. 
He  seemed  to  be  governed  by  a  wild  and  desperate  impulse.  It 
was  as  if,  suddenly  put  in  possession  of  his  treasure,  and  dreading 
that  it  should  be  torn  away  from  him,  he  was  resolved  to  bear 
her  away  —  to  lose  no  moment  of  precious  time  in  doing  so ;  and, 
thus  feeling,  if  not  thinking,  he  put  forth  all  the  gigantic  strength 
of  his  frame,  and,  lifting  her  wholly  from  the  ground,  strode  at 
once  for  the  deeper  thickets  where  his  horse  had  been  tethered. 

He  did  not  think  ;  he  had  no  deliberate  purpose.  The  impulse 
was  one  of  a  wild  and  headlong  frenzy,  the  creature  of  long-pent- 
up  passions,  now  working  with  ungovernable  sway,  and  rejecting 
wholly  the  mastery  of  reason. 

"  Yes,  you  are  mine  now,  Olive  —  mine  for  ever  !  Let  me  see 
who  shall  cross  our  path  !  They  have  wronged  us  long  enough  ; 
we  shall  baffle  them  now.  We  will  go  free,  to  a  new  life,  to  hope 
and  happiness,  my  love.  You  do  not  doubt  me,  Olive  ?  —  do  not 
fear  me  ?  Are  you  not  mine,  mine  only,  my  beloved  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  Harry  —  you  know  !  you  ought  to  know !  We 
shall  go  back  to  the  Feltham  willows,  dear  Harry,  and  then  there 
shall  be  no  more  death  —  no  more  drowning.  Ah !  they  can  not 
cheat  me  now." 

And,  even  as  she  spoke,  she  moaned  feebly.  The  painful  sound 
seemed  to  move  him  with  a  fearful  rage.  He  said,  bitterly : — 

"  They  shall  atone  for  this  !     He  shall  atone  !     My  poor  Olive, 


THE   DEAD    ALIVE.  377 

how  they  have  crushed  you  among  them !  The  dove  among 
hawks  and  vultures  !  But  let  me  find  them.  You  are  safe  now, 
I  will  carry  you  far.  You  shall  have  peace,  my  beloved  —  peace 
at  last  —  and  love  !" 

"  Yes,  peace  —  love  !"  she  murmured ;  and  then,  as  he  hurried 
on  through  the  grove,  he  felt  her  head,  which  had  been  lifted  as 
she  spoke,  fall  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  and  her  moaning  and 
speech  ceased  together. 

"  She  faints.     God  !  if  she  should  die  now  !" 

And  he  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  increased  his  speed.  She  was 
apparently  insensible.  He  feared  this;  but  it  only  made  him 
hasten  onward  with  his  burden,  as  if  he  could  find  no  help  for  her 
anywhere  short  of  the  refuge,  with  himself  only,  to  which  his  im 
pulse  would  have  borne  her.  Never  were  wits  and  impulse  more 
unreasoning. 

"  If  I  can  get  her  on  horseback !"  he  muttered,  between  his 
teeth.  This  was  the  one  idea.  "  It  is  but  a  moment's  weakness. 
She  will  recover  with  the  motion,  and  in  a  single  hour ! — " 

And  his  pace  was  accelerated.  He  was  already  at  the  end  of 
the  grove,  and  she  still  insensible,  when  suddenly  the  faint  crying 
of  a  child  was  heard,  on  the  verge  of  the  thicket,  and  near  the 
very  point  which  he  was  approaching. 

The  maternal  instincts  became  immediately  conscious.  In  the 
same  moment,  at  the  first  sound  of  that  cry,  Olive  started  into  in 
stant  life  and  animation  —  started  to  her  feet  —  shook  herself  free 
from  the  grasp  of  our  rover  —  pushed  him  from  her  —  exclaim 
ing,  as  she  did  so  — 

"  My  child,  my  child !  It  is  my  child !"  Then,  giving  him  a 
look  of  reproach  — 

"  O  Harry,  how  could  you  do  me  thus  ?" 

For  the  first  time  she  stood  up,  boldly  confronting  him,  her 
eyes  now  looking  fearlessly  into  his.  His  arms  no  longer  sus 
tained  her ;  his  hands  had  dropped  by  his  side ;  and  as  his  glance 
rested  fairly  upon  her,  he  saw  in  a  moment  what  a  cruel  mockery 
it  had  been,  of  hope  and  heart,  to  think  of  any  mere  mortal  pas 
sion  m  connection  with  such  a  creature.  She  was  no  longer  a 
thing  of  earth.  All  the  spiritual  aspect  of  death  shone  out  in  hei 
eyes  —  in  the  wan,  transparent  visage  —  so  sadly  wan,  so  entirely 
sublimed  by  sorrow  —  by  a  Fate  which  lifted  her  above  earthly 


378  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

sentiments,  if  not  above  mortal  griefs,  and  trampled  all  mortal 
passion  under  foot.  And  when  she  so  mournfully  exclaimed,  with 
such  a  full  return  of  reason  and  consciousness  — 

"  How  could  you  do  me  thus,  Harry?"  — 

He  was  stricken  with  self-reproach,  humbled  and  ashamed.  He 
might  just  as  properly  have  borne  her  to  the  bier  for  the  bed  of 
bridal,  as  to  think  any  more  of  a  merely  mortal  love,  in  the  case 
of  one  already  consecrated  by  the  stroke  of  Fate.  The  kiss  of  a 
mortal  passion  upon  lips  thus  hallowed  for  Death,  would  be  profa 
nation. 

His  excuse  to  his  own  conscience  was,  in  his  momentary  blind 
ness.  He  had  been  goaded  by  a  temporary  insanity ;  hurried 
away,  without  thought,  by  long-suppressed  passion,  which  forbade 
for  awhile  the  control  of  reason.  But,  now,  the  first  ferocity  of 
passion  had  gone  over :  reason  was  restored  by  a  tenderer  feeling, 
a  more  generous  instinct.  The  revulsion  left  him  for  the  instant 
paralyzed.  Great  drops  gathered  in  his  eyes  ;  his  lips  quivered  ; 
he  was  speechless,  save  in  the  sadness,  the  contrition,  the  remorse 
and  agony,  in  his  countenance,  as  their  mutual  eyes  met  and  dwelt 
upon  each  other. 

"  Forgive  me,  Olive  —  forgive  !     It  was  madness  !" 

So,  at  length,  he  spoke,  in  broken  murmurs. 

And  she,  too,  spoke  again  —  very  slowly,  and  in  the  most  sub 
dued  tones  —  her  eyes  still  resting  steadily  upon  his  face. 

"  And  it  is  —  it  is  you,  Harry  !" 

To  this  he  could  only  answer  by  a  moan,  clasping  his  head 
with  his  hands,  as  if  to  control  the  bursting  violence  with  which 
his  brain  was  throbbing  in  all  its  chambers. 

"  And  you  do  live  !  O  my  God,  I  thank  thee  for  this  —  this, 
at  least !  You  are  —  I  know  it  now  —  you  are  still  in  life  —  still 
a  strong  man  !  You  will  live  !" 

"  Alas !  Olive,  I  do  live.     The  more  the  pity !" 

"  Say  not  so,  Harry,     You  must  live ;  and  be  not  sad — " 

"  Another  plaint  ive  <;ry  of  the  child,  now  evidently  approach 
ing,  half  drowned  the  feeble  accents  of  her  voice,  and  stifled  the 
half-spoken  sentence.  She  would  have  turned  about  to  the  cry, 
as  she  heard  it ;  but  her  limbs  failed  her.  The  momentary  strength 
was  gone ;  she  staggered,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  that  he  caugh* 
her  in  his  arms. 


THE    DEAD    ALIVE.  379 

"  Carry  me  to  my  child,  Harry  !"  was  all  she  could  utter. 

She  sank  heavily  in  his  embrace,  with  these  broken  words. 
She  had  ceased  to  be  conscious,  in  the  momentary  recurring  of 
her  consciousness.  His  arm  alone  sustained  her.  As  he  felt  this, 
he  exclaimed  aloud,  in  his  agony : — 

"  Olive  !  Olive  !     0  God,  she  is  dying  !  —  she  is  dead  !" 

At  this  moment,  and  while  he  still  clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  in 
the  spasmodic  embrace  of  one  who  feels  that  a  long-lost  treasure 
has  been  suddenly  restored  to  him,  and  fears  again  to  lose  it,  a 
voice  at  his  elbow  abruptly  aroused  him  to  the  consciousness  of 
another  party  to  the  scene.  The  voice  was  subdued,  measured 
though  quivering  with  emotion ;  but  there  was  also  a  compressive 
sternness  in  its  tones.  Harry  knew,  with  the  first  intonation,  from 
whose  lips  the  accents  came.  It  was  the  voice  of  his  brother  — 
of  Edward  Berkeley,  the  husband  of  Olive  —  the  cassique  of 
Kiawah ! 

He  turned  abruptly,  firmly,  with  set  teeth,  and  confronted  the 
speaker. 

The  cassique  met  his  gaze  with  strange  apparent  calmness. 
There  was  no  hostility  in  his  looks.  Nay,  could  Harry  have  ex 
ercised  sufficient  calm  of  mood  to  note  the  expression  in  his  eyes, 
he  would  have  seen  that  they  were  full  of  sorrow,  and  not  of  strife. 

But  he  had  heard  the  tones ;  and  now,  as  he  turned,  he  saw 
that  the  cassique  carried  a  drawn  rapier  in  his  hand. 

Harry,  supporting  Olive  with  one  arm,  instantly  extricated  hi? 
own  rapier  from  its  sheath.  In  this  action,  Olive  began  to  recovei 
her  consciousness.  Her  eyes  opened  slowly,  and,  staring  for  a 
moment  wildly  upon  her  husband,  she  started  suddenly  to  her 
feet  —  started  forward,  and,  though  staggering,  stood  up,  alone 
and  unsupported,  between  the  brothers,  who  had  each,  as  by  a 
mutual  instinct,  recoiled  a  pace.  She  beheld  the  drawn  sword  in 
the  hands  of  each.  She  extended  her  own  hands  between  them. 

"  Oh,  shame  !"  she  cried  ;  "  oh,  shame  !     "Weapons  drawn,  in  th 
eyes  of  a  dying  woman  !" 

And  both  swords  were  dropped  to  the  ground.  And  the  cheeks 
of  the  two  strong  men  were  flushed ;  and  they  felt,  in  whatevet 
degree  either  of  them  had  meditated  violence,  all  the  terrible  re- 
buke  contained  in  that  single  pregnant  speech  from  the  wan,  spir 
itual,  shadowy  form  before  them. 


380  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

It  was  a  scene  for  the  bold  dramatic  painter.  Both  men  were 
nobly- formed  creations,  framed  in  the  very  prodigality  of  Nature 
—  tall,  erect,  with  well-developed  limbs  and  muscles;  graceful 
and  commanding ;  full  of  courage ;  and,  without  even  meditating 
the  conflict,  naturally  taking  their  positions  for  it  with  the  atti 
tudes  of  the  most  accomplished  gladiators  of  the  days  of  chivalry. 
Nor  was  the  costume  of  either  wanting  in  the  requisitions  of  grace. 
While  Edward  Berkeley  and  his  brother,  our  rover,  both  adhered 
to  the  small-clothes  of  the  day,  which  showed  fully  the  perfection 
of  the  lower  limbs,  the  upper  garments  had  been  chosen  rather 
with  regard  to  the  ease  and  freedom  of  the  hunter-life  than  to  the 
demands  of  a  formal  European  court.  The  cassique  wore  a  loose 
sort  of  blouse,  which,  wide  open  in  front,  hung  loosely  from  his 
shoulders,  in  his  present  attitude,  like  the  light  cloak  of  the  Span 
ish  cavalier.  Harry,  on  the  other  hand,  was  garbed  in  the  manly 
and  picturesque  costume  of  the  forest-ranger  —  the  hunting-shirt 
of  light-blue  homespun,  with  its  falling  capes  and  fringes  —  a  gar 
ment  which,  for  grace  of  drapery,  and  the  freedom  of  movement 
which  it  allows,  merits  preference  over  all  others,  as  properest  for 
the  American  costume. 

And  between  the  two,  thus  posed,  thus  habited  and  confronted, 
stood  the  slight,  frail,  shadowy  woman,  whose  wan  visage,  trans 
parent  skin,  and  eyes  of  dazzling,  spiritual  brightness,  seemed  to 
declare  her  the  denizen  of  a  superior  world,  suddenly  descended 
between  the  combatants,  to  arrest  their  conflict. 

We  have  seen  the  effect  of  her  first  words.  She  had  power  for 
a  few  more  only. 

"  O  Harry  !  0  Sir  Edward !  Let  me  die ;  but  do  not  you  — 
brothers  —  brothers  ! — " 

And  she  again  sank,  and  again  into  the  arms  of  our  rover. 

"  Give  her  to  me,  Harry  Berkeley,"  said  the  cassique,  as  he 
took  her  from  the  unresisting  arms  of  the  other.  "  Give  her  to 
ae  ;  but  await  me  here  !" 

One  might  almost  suppose,  from  the  tones,  that  the  speaker 
were  emotionless.  But  he  had  trained  himself  to  this ;  he  had 
been  schooled  to  suffer,  too  long,  to  yield  even  at  such  a  moment. 
His  voice  was  that  of  a  will  which  embodied  authority.  He  had 
shown  no  surprise  when,  in  the  person  of  the  stranger,  he  had 
recognised  his  long-lost  brother ;  he  had  shown  no  jealous  conflict 


THE   DEAD   ALIVE.  881 

in  his  soul  at  the  relation  in  which  he  had  seen  him  with  his  wife ; 
yet  the  inference  is  natural  that  he  had  witnessed  much  if  not  all 
of  the  scene  between  them,  though  he  might  not  have  heard  the 
language :  and  unless  we  suppose,  from  the  circumstance  that  he 
approached  with  rapier  drawn,  that  he  meditated  violence,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  demeanor  to  argue  any  such  purpose  on  his 
part.  We  may  add,  from  what  we  know,  that,  when  he  first  drew 
nigh,  he  knew  not  that  the  audacious  stranger  was  a  brother. 
Long  persuaded  of  his  death,  he  had  no  reason  to  suppose  Harry 
Berkeley  to  be  still  a  living  man. 

With  the  same  heroic  calmness  and  diffidence  of  manner  which 
he  had  shown  throughout  the  scene,  did  he  take  his  wife  into  his 
arms.  And  Harry  Berkeley,  now  fully  master  of  himself,  exhib 
ited  a  like  firmness  of  nerve  and  steadiness  of  countenance.  He 
yielded  her,  with  one  fond,  despairing  glance,  to  the  arms  of  his 
brother.  Olive  was  utterly  insensible.  She  knew  nothing  of 
what  followed  ;  and,  with  the  tenderness  of  one  whose  heart  was 
full  of  loving  care,  and  who  had  no  cause  of  complaint,  the  cas- 
sique  lifted  his  wife  upon  his  bosom,  and  as  he  bore  her  away 
repeated  the  injunction  — 

"  Wait  till  I  return." 

This  was  all :  there  was  nothing  to  show  in  what  mood,  or  with 
what  purpose,  he  should  return.  And  with  his  own  doubts  still 
upon  him,  Harry  replied  — 

"  Be  sure  I  will  await  you,  Edward  Berkeley." 

And  as  the  cassique  bore  away  his  precious  burden  toward  the 
dwelling  Harry  picked  up  his  rapier,  and,  without  sheathing  it, 
•walked  si  jwly  off  for  a  few  paces,  to  the  sheltering  branches  of  a 
great  oak,  under  which  he  threw  himself  down. 

"  Yes,  Edward,  I  will  await  you  !  It  is  proper  that  you  should 
meet  me  here,  where  I  have  parted,  perhaps  for  ever,  from  her  ! 
I  will  await  you,  and — " 

The  soliloquy  was  arrested  abruptly.  In  his  present  conflict 
of  mood,  there  could  be  no  logical  conclusion  for  it.  We,  too,  will 
await  the  parties. 


882  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHERS. 

"  Speak  you  so  gently  ?     Pardon  me,  I  pray  you : 
I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here; 
And,  therefore,  put  I  on  the  countenance 

Of  stern  commandment ! 

I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword." 

As  You  Lite  It. 

OUR  rover  lay  waiting  for  some  time  impatiently  beneath  his 
tree.  The  cassique  was  necessarily  delayed  by  the  condition  of 
Olive.  It  was  scarcely  possible  that  he  should  leave  her  before 
she  showed  signs  of  recovery.  Even  Harry  Berkeley  could  al 
low  for  this  in  spite  of  his  impatience.  But  he  was  not  the  less 
impatient  for  the  allowance.  His  blood  and  brain  were  in  wild 
confusion. 

At  length  the  cassique  appeared  in  sight,  slowly  moving  toward 
him.  We  must  not,  in  this  place,  interrupt  the  progress  of  events, 
by  reporting  the  trying  scene  of  Olive's  recovery  from  insensibil 
ity.  We  must  give  ourselves  wholly  to  the  things  before  us. 

As  Harry  saw  his  brother  approach,  he  rose  eagerly  to  his  feet, 

but  did  not  advance,  till  he  beheld  the  other  pick  up  his  sword. 

He  had  not  sheathed  his  own ;  and  now,  poising  it  lightly  in  his 

grasp,  he  strode  a  few  paces  forward,  diminishing  the  distance 

etween  them. 

The  cassique  beheld  the  action  of  his  brother,  and  his  counte 
nance  assumed  a  sadder  aspect  than  before.  He  paused  —  delib 
erately  sheathed  his  own  sword,  and  came  forward,  presenting  his 
hand. 

Harry  gazed  sternly  on  his  face ;  and,  speaking  only  to  the 
action  of  the  other,  said,  in  the  harshest  accents : — 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   KR OTHERS.  383 

"  Bettor  take  your  weapon  in  it,  Edward  Berkeley.  Our  hands 
can  never  again  meet  ungloved.  It  is  too  late  for  such  peaceful 
signs.  You  have  passed  the  bounds  of  amnesty.  We  must  try 
the  last  issues !" 

"I  know  not  why  it  should  be  so,  Harry,  my  brother/' 

"You  know  not!  It  is  then  strange  enough  that,  you  should 
know  anything.  But,  before  we  speak  of  discord,  first  tell  me, 
what  of  her  —  what  of  Olive  —  the  woman  you  aro  murdering! 
Does  she  live  ?  Is  she  recovered  ?" 

"  She  recovers  —  she  lives." 

"Ah!  God  be  praised  for  that!  I  shall  not,  then,  have  her 
murder,  as  well  as  my  own  wrongs,  t<>  avenge !" 

"  If  this  is  to  be  taken  into  the  account,  Harry,"  paid  the  other, 
sadly  enough,  "  I  know  not  how  lonj;  it  will  be  before  you  may 
make  your  reckoning  complete.  Olive  Berkeley  i  ecovers  from 
her  swoon,  it  is  true;  she  lives,  for  the  present:  but  I  must  not 
disguise  it  from  you,  as  I  do  not  from  myself,  that  she  can  not  live 
very  long.  The  strings  of  life  are  snapping,  one  by  one.  Soon 
they  will  vibrate  no  longer !  She  will  die,  Harry  Berkeley  — 
nothing  now  can  save  her !" 

"  And  with  these  tidings  on  your  lips,  you  think  that  I  will 
take  your  hand  ?  That  I  will  grasp  with  friendship  the  hand  of 
him  who  has  been  her  murderer  !  Edward  Berkeley,  robber  of 
thy  brother,  traitorous  and  dishonest  kinsman,  it  was  not  enough 
that  thou  shouldst  carry  off  all  the  wealth  of  thy  father,  as  tho 
first-born  to  the  inheritance  ;  that  I,  thy  brother,  should  be  driven 
abroad  to  perilous  venture  upon  the  high  seas,  in  search  of  for 
tune ;  but  thou  must  glide  in  between  me  and  happiness  —  be 
tween  my  heart  and  its  onu  treasure  —  and  rob  me  of  that  which 
alone  could  suffice  to  make  my  home  procious !  Draw,  sir,  and 
let  your  manhood  show  itself  equal  to  your  malice !" 

Deep  crimson  was  the  flush  that  suddenly  passed  over  the 
cheeks  and  forehead  of  the  cassique  as  he  listened  to  this  lan 
guage. 

But  the  flush  was  succeeded  by  a  still  more  decided  pallor. 
His  lips  were,  for  a  moment,  sternly  compressed,  as  if  to  subdue 
all  efforts  of  the  rising  passion  In  his  blood.  When  he  spoke,  he 
had  obtained  a  great  triumph  over  himself.  His  tones  were 
measured,  his  words  and  utterance  quite  calm. 


384  THE    CASSIQUK   OF    K1AWAH. 

"  These  are  fearful  charges,  my  brother ;  terrible,  indeed,  were 
they  true." 

"  And  are  they  not  true  ?  Are  you  not  in  possession  of  one 
who  was  pledged  to  me,  in  life  and  death ;  and  is  she  not  dying 
in  your  hands  ?  Couple  the  cause  with  the  effect ;  note  the  his 
tory,  step  by  step,  as  you  may,  with  any  honest  logic,  and  the 
truth  is  patent.  True  !  Do  you  dare  venture  to  deny  the  truth  ?" 

"  It  is  new  to  me,  Harry  Berkeley,  to  listen  to  such  language, 
from  any  lips." 

"  Why  listen,  then  ?     The  sword—" 

"  There  had  been  a  season,  Harry,  when  even  you  should  not 
have  challenged  me  to  the  sword  without  the  sword's  answer. 
But  now — " 

"  Ah  !  now  !  What  is  it  now  subdues  your  courage  ?  What, 
but  your  conscience  ?  Edward  Berkeley,  good  swordsman  as  you 
are,  in  such  a  cause  you  would  cross  my  weapon  only  to  fate." 

"  Perhaps  ;  and  yet  I  know  not  that.  But  what  have  I  to  do 
with  vain  boasting,  or  equally  vain  reply  to  your  boast,  when  such 
a  fate  as  now  threatens,  hangs  over  yonder  dwelling  ?" 

"  Ay  !"  answered  the  other,  gloomily.  "  It  may  well  rouse 
conscience  and  challenge  fear  in  the  bosom  of  him  to  whom  it  is 
all  due." 

"  Due  to  me,  indeed !  But  not  knowingly,  not  willingly,  as 
Heaven  looks  down  upon  us  now !  Harry  Berkeley,  impatient 
brother  of  mine,  the  greatest  of  my  pangs  now,  after  the  one  which 
follows  that  impending  fate,  is,  that  I  should  hear  such  language 
from  your  lips  ;  listen  to  such  accusations  ;  and  be  taught  that  they 
are  made  by  one  who,  after  a  twenty  years'  experience,  should 
know  me  so  little  as  to  entertain  such  fancies.  True !  God  of 
heaven  !  has  the  brother  of  my  childhood  and  happy  youth  — 
when  we  were  both  happy  —  has  he  yet  to  learn  the  qualities  of 
one  with  whom  he  has  slept  and  sported  for  nearly  twenty  years  ? 
This  is  my  great  regret ;  the  very  dagger  to  my  heart  of  pride. 
What !  have  I  been  so  utterly  void  of  demonstration,  or  character, 
that,  without  question,  you  should  think  of  me  such  thoughts  ?" 

"  Ah  !  you  declaim  it  well !  But  this  will  never  answer.  Say, 
are  you  not  here,  and  in  possession  of  one  whom  you  know  tc 
have  been  my  betrothed  ?" 

"  I  know  it  now  !     I  knew  it  not,  a  month  ago." 


THE   MEETING    OF   THE   BROTHERS.  385 

"  Ha  !  impossible  !  I  happen  to  know  better.  This  tale  will 
never  answer.  Enough ;  I  say  the  thing  is  impossible." 

"  Why,  yes,  Harry ;  it  must  be  impossible  to  you,  in  such  a 
mood  as  yours,  when  you  make  it  my  offence  that  I  was  born  be 
fore  you  ;  that,  by  law,  I  have  a  certain  family  inheritance.  When 
such  are  my  imputed  offences,  what  hope  have  I  that  any  proofs 
would  satisfy  my  accuser  ?  He  forgets  that  he  has  shared  with 
me  the  profits  of  this  very  inheritance ;  that  my  purse  has  ever 
been  his  own  ;  that  his  first  outfits  for  fortune  were  under  my  ad 
vances  of  money ;  and  that  I  have  never  said  him  *  Nay,'  when 
from  boyhood  to  manhood  he  had  a  craving  or  a  plan,  a  need  or 
a  pleasure,  which  implied  the  free  use  of  money.  May  God  curse 
the  wealth  which  is  to  deprive  me  of  a  brother's  faith — the  affec 
tions  of  a  kinsman !" 

"  Now,  by  my  soul,  Edward  Berkeley,  but  it  confirms  all  my 
belief  in  your  crime,  when  you  plead  your  benefits,  your  bounty, 
in  justification  of  your  wrong-doing." 
"  Plead  ?     My  benefits  !  my  bounty  !" 

"  Ay,  plead  !  what  else  ?  You  tell  me  of  your  purse,  and  how 
I  shared  it ;  and  how,  as  boy  and  youth,  I  had  wants  and  appe 
tites,  to  which  your  wealth  has  ministered.  And  this,  in  reply  to 
my  charge  that  you  had  basely  stolen  from  me  the  one  only  jewel 
to  which,  in  all  my  poverty,  I  had  clung  as  keenly  as  to  life.  She 
was  my  life !  I  have  had  none  since  !" 

Again  the  warm  crimson  overspread  the  cheeks  of  the  cassique. 
Indignation  and  mortification  strove  together  in  the  expression  of 
his  face. 

"  O  Harry  Berkeley,"  he  said,  "  this  is  very,  very  cruel.  How 
vexatiously  do  you  pervert  my  speech !" 

"Yes;  you  remind  me  of  your  benefits  —  of  what  I  owe  yon! 
That  is,  you  have  given  money  to  a  boy  who  wanted  toys  —  to  a 
youth  who  had  appetites  for  pleasure  ;  you  have  given  freely,  un 
grudgingly  ;  and  you  tell  him  so  !  It  is  true ;  you  have  so  given. 
But,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  able  to  'quite  you  the  amount  of  this 
giving,  ten  times  told !  You  shall  have  it,  every  farthing." 
"Harry!  Harry!" 

"  But,  what  did  I  not  give  you,  in  return  for  these  benefits— 
this  liberal  allowance  of  money  ?  I  gave  you  faith,  sir — the  gen 
erous  faith  of  a  most  unselfish  boyhood.  I  opened  to  you  all  my 

17 


386  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

heart ;  I  confided  freely  in  yours.  You  had,  from  me,  the  fond 
est  deference,  the  most  uncalculating  confidence,  the  most  broth 
erly  love,  unmixed  with  envy,  jealousy,  or  any  other  baser  metal 
of  the  passions.  Your  money  did  not  buy  these !  It  was  your 
love,  your  truth,  your  equal  confidence  and  faith.  And  where 
were  these  when  you  wronged  my  absence  ?  Suppose  me  worth 
less,  ungrateful  for  all  your  gifts,  forgetful  of  your  benefits  :  should 
this  justify  you  in  the  usurpation  of  my  rights?" 

"  I  did  not !     By  the  great  God—" 

"  By  all  the  gods,  you  did !  You  seized  the  moment  of  my 
greatest  misfortune  —  my  wreck  upon  the  seas,  and  the  dreary 
absence  which  followed  it — to  insinuate  yourself  into  the  affec 
tions  of  the  woman  who  was  pledged  to  me  —  the  only  woman  I 
had  ever  loved  !  By  cunning  arts,  you  overcame  her  weakness ; 
roused  her  vanities  by  your  temptations — your  wealth,  your  title  ; 
played  upon  her  poor,  weak,  woman-heart ;  dazzled  her  eyes — " 

"  Stop,  Harry ;  and  whatever  else  you  may  say  in  your  mad 
ness,  forbear  all  reproach  of  Olive  Berkeley !  Not  a  word  of 
censure  upon  her !  She  was  weak,  no  doubt ;  weak  where,  would 
to  God  she  had  been  most  strong ;  but  mean  vanity,  lust  of  wealth, 
pride,  pomp,  or  power,  never  weighed  one  moment  in  her  bosom. 
She,  at  least,  was  free  from  all  such  sin." 

"  What  is  it,  then,  that  you  call  her  weakness  ?" 

"  She  had  no  proper  power — no  will,  perhaps — when  she  hear<? 
that  you  were  dead,  to  resist  an  authority  under  which  her  infancy 
and  childhood  had  been  always  trained.  The  fault  (and  there  was 
fault)  was  none  of  hers.  She  must  not  suffer  censure  from  your 
lips  or  mine." 

"  Ah !  I  thank  you,  EoVard  Berkeley,  for  this,  at  least.  It 
restores  her  to  my  thought,  to  my  heart,  as  she  was  before  —  a 
pure,  loving,  faithful,  and  devoted  woman.  Olive  !  Olive  !  it  is  a 
great  gain  to  my  soul  that  I  can  still  think  of  you  as  in  that  first 
morning  of  our  youth,  when  neither  of  us  had  dread  of  wreck 
But,  how  much  more  the  wrong-  and  sliame  of  those  who  have  baf 
fled  the  hop#s  and  erjjslifcd  the  hearts  of  both !  Yes,  Olive,  I 
might  have  known,  in  your  wan  visage  and  breaking  heart,  that 
you  were  only  a  victim!  But  you  shall  not  be  unavenged!  — 
Weak,  say  you,  Edward  Berkeley  ?  —  weak  as  a  loving,  simple- 
hearted,  tender  woman  !  But  whose  was  the  wily  art  to  abuse 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHERS.          887 

this  weakness  ?  to  win  this  weak  heart  from  its  faith  ?  to  deceive 
her  with  false  tidings  of  my  death  ?  to  torture  her  life  by  incessant 
practice,  until,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  she  sank  into  submission 
to  a  fate  at  which  her  whole  soul  revolted  —  a  fate  which  has 
brought  her  now,  as  you  admit,  to  the  very  verge  of  doom  ?  Who, 
but  you,  and  that  wretched  old  beldame,  her  mother  ?" 

"  False  !  false !     /  am  guiltless." 

"  Yes  ;  you  joined  wits  together ;  laid  your  snares  ;  practised 
your  arts ;  lied,  cajoled,  vexed,  worried,  until  you  triumphed  — 
triumphed  in  the  utter  overthrow  of  the  fairest,  gentlest,  loveliest 
of  all  God's  creatures.  Your  money  and  rank  bought  that  miser- 
erable  old  woman,  whose  passions,  nursed  by  vanity,  had  no  life 
save  in  public  show.  The  strong  will  of  the  strong  man  ;  the  cun 
ning  arts  of  the  selfish  old  woman  :  these  combined  to  overawe,  to 
overcome  the  timorous  young  thing,  till  you  had  her  tangled  in 
your  snares,  fettered  in  your  meshes,  trembling  under  your  des 
potism,  and,  in  utter  despair  at  last,  yielding  submission,  through 
utterly-exhausted  faculties  and  a  wretchedly-bewildered  brain  ! 
And  lo !  the  fruits  —  madness,  and  a  closely-impending  death! 
Acquit  Olive,  as  you  do,  and  such  is  the  history,  such  the  damna 
ble  crime ;  and  all  the  guilt  is  yours  !" 

A  cold  sweat  covered  the  pallid  brows  of  the  cassique.  The 
vehemence  of  our  rover  had  been  irresistible.  And  such  was  the 
apparent  history.  On  his  lips,  it  was  but  too  plausibly  stated ; 
and  the  cassique  shuddered  as  he  heard. 

"It  is  a  terrible  picture,  Harry  Berkeley,  which  you  have 
drawn ;  and  I  feel  there  is  too  much  in  it  that  is  probably  true ! 
This  is  what  crushes  me.  For,  though  myself  guiltless,  I  fear, 
from  what  I  now  know,  that  such  have  been  the  arts  practised  to 
subdue  the  faith  of  Olive  Berkeley,  and  cause  her  to  yield  to  my 
wishes.  I  have  been  made  to  win  by  a  practice  in  which  I  did 
not  share." 

"  Ah  !  and  who  not  guilty,  if  not  you  ?  Knew  you  nothing  of 
these  processes  ?  Was  Olive's  such  a  clear,  frank,  noonday  con 
senting  to  your  prayers,  that  it  never  once  struck  you  that  it  was 
an  enforced  business  ?  Can  you  tell  me  that  she  smiled  gratefully 
when  you  came  ?  that  her  eyes  seemed  to  hunger  for  your  com 
ing  ;  that  her  lips  welcomed  you  with  fondest  falterings  of  speech, 
Oh  !  there  are  thousand  signs  by  which  one  detects  the  passion 


388  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

lurking  in  the  purest  virgin  heart,  and  giving  encouragement  to 
the  bashful  wooer.  All  of  these  you  saw  ?  You  were  not  a  sim 
pleton  ;  not  blind  with  self-conceit ;  no  mere  boy,  laboring  under  a 
bounding  impulse  of  the  blood  ?  You  could  see,  could  hear,  could 
understand,  that  child-nature  —  so  unsophisticated,  so  true  in  ev 
ery  gushing  emotion,  thought,  feeling,  fancy !  You  were  not  de 
ceived.  Had  you  these  signs,  proofs?  —  for  such  signs  speak  as 
certainly  for  the  ingenuous  young  heart  as  any  that  shine  from 
heaven,  or  pass  before  our  eyes  on  earth.  Ah !  you  had  these 
proofs,  Edward  Berkeley,  all,  ere  you  ventured  to  say  to  your 
self,  '  This  woman  loves  me  ?'  Surely,  you  never,  with  your 
pride,  your  manhood,  would  descend  to  a  traffic  in  hearts,  in 
which  you  were  willing  to  have  a  counterfeit  passed  upon  you !" 
"  Were  I  to  say  to  you,  Harry,  that  I  had  such  proofs  —  now 
with  my  present  thoughts  and  convictions  —  I  should  speak 
falsely.  But,  when  I  sought  Olive  Masterton  in  marriage,  I  fondly 
fancied  that  I  had  these  proofs.  No !  my  pride  alone  would  never 
have  suffered  me  to  take  a  counterfeit  passion  to  my  breast." 

"  Never  !  never  !  You  could  never  have  believed  that  you  had 
such  proofs." 

"  I  had  not.  I  am  willing  now  to  admit  that  I  had  not.  Yet, 
I  loved,  and  was  willing  to  believe  !  I  was  deceived  by  others  j 
I  was  too  easy,  too  willing  to  be  deceived  by  myself.  That  was 
all  my  fault.  Now  that  I  look  back^  I  wonder  at  my  own  self- 
deception.  Olive  was  simply  passive.  The  proofs  that  assured 
and  lured  me  were  such  as  cunning  could  suggest  to  passion." 
"And  whose  the  cunning?" 

"  It  is  enough  for  me,  Harry,  to  disclaim  the  cunning  as  mine. 
I  used  no  arts,  except  those  which  should  commend  myself  to  a 
beloved  object ;  none  but  such  as  I  thought,  and  still  think,  legiti 
mate  to  use  That  others  were  used,  I  now  believe ;  but  it  is 
not  for  me,  ilarry,  to  declare  or  denounce  the  guilty.  Enough 
for  me,  to  disclaim  all  part  in  the  guilt.  I  had  no  doubt  of 
your  death ;  but  you  were  not  spoken  of,  or  thought  of,  in  this 
connection.  I  fancied,  when  I  proposed  for  Olive,  that  her  heart 
had  been  touched  in  r.c  serious  manner :  that  she  had  been  an 
object  of  attention,  had  reached  my  ears ;  but  no  such  object  ever 
presented  himself  to  my  sight ;  and  the  assurance  given  me  was. 
that  there  had  been  no  obligation  between  her  and  anv  other 


THE  MEETING  OP  THE  BROTHERS.         389 

party.  I  am  satisfied  now — even  before  any  word  from  you — 
that  all  this  was  false ;  that  there  had  been  an  engagement :  but 
even  then,  even  when  I  had  made  this  discovery,  I  never  dreamed 
that  you  had  been  the  object  of  her  affections.  This  discovery 
was  reserved  for  a  more  recent  period.  It  was  then  made  invol 
untarily  by  Olive  herself,  under  circumstances  too  sacred  to  speak 
of.  Whatever  subterfuge  or  cunning  was  employed  to  bring  her 
to  my  wishes,  Harry  Berkeley,  as  God  hears  me  at  this  moment, 
I  knew  nothing  of  them.  I  was  as  innocent  of  any  false  practice 
with  Olive  Masterton  as  she  with  me !  That  she  was  practised 
upon  —  that  we  were  both  practised  upon,  selfishly  and  dishon 
estly,  even  as  you  describe  the  practice  —  I  am  now  too  well  sat 
isfied.  It  is  my  great  grief  that  I  was  the  gainer  —  if,  indeed,  it 
be  gain — by  this  false  practice ;  that  so  much  that  you  have  said 
is  true !  But  I,  too,  have  been  the  victim.  Do  you  think  that  I 
would  have  married  any  woman  whom  I  should  have  to  love  in 
vain?" 

An  incredulous  laugh,  full  of  bitterness,  answered  this  assurance. 
For  the  moment,  the  speaker  had  no  other  answer. 

"  You  may  laugh,  Harry,  as  you  will.  But  I  have  lived  too 
long  in  vain,  to  be  moved  by  this  treatment.  It  is  matter  of  more 
moment  to  you  than  to  me,  that  you  should  continue  to  nurse  this 
demon  of  doubt.  If  I  loved  Olive  Masterton  —  if  I  tried  all  arts 
to  win  her  —  sacrificing  truth,  and  faith,  and  magnanimity,  as  well 
as  honesty  —  I  am  terribly  punished  for  the  fault !  She  will  soon 
be  lost  to  us  for  ever.  She  has  long  since  been  lost  to  me!  For 
months  have  I  known,  not  only  that  she  loved  me  not,  but  that 
my  presence  was  a  pain  to  her,  and  a  loathing  !  If  I  have  sinned 
against  you,  my  brother,  I  have  got  my  reward.  My  punishment 
is  inevitable.  If  I  could  reproach  myself,  as  you  now  reproach 
me,  I  should  entreat  your  sword  to  my  throat ;  nay,  my  brother, 
be  prompted  to  use  my  own !  The  demon  has  urged  this  in  my 
ears  a  thousand  times,  and  with  reason,  for,  of  a  truth,  life  is  to  me 
a  dreadful  weariness !" 

"  Edward  Berkeley,  I  would  to  God  that  I  could  believe  you ! 
How  I  have  loved  you,  can  be  said  by  no  lips  better  than  by 
yours ;  it  will  not  now  be  said  by  mine.  I  believed  you  all  truth 
and  honor.  I  would  have  trusted  you  with  mine  —  with  life,  love, 
everything — ay,  even  with  Olive  !  And  to  be  betrayed  by  you  V 


390  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

"  I  never  betrayed  you,  Harry." 

"  Stay,  Edward  Berkeley.  Do  not  suppose  me  ignorant.  Mj 
emissaries  have  been  busy.  I  have  heard  the  truth.  There  was 
one  person,  at  least,  who  told  you  of  Olive's  engagement,  and  the 
claims  of  your  brother." 

"  Never  !     Who  ?" 

"  Old  Walter  Hern !  You  saw  him ;  you  spoke  to  him  of 
Olive  and  her  childhood,  and  he  told  you  of  our  betrothal." 

«  He  did  not." 

"  What !  old  Hern  lie  —  that  good  old  man  —  the  faithful  stew 
ard  of  our  father  for  forty  years  ?" 

"  Did  Hern  tell  you,  in  so  many  words,  that  he  had  told  me 
these  things?  I  honor  his  truth  no  less  than  you.  If  he  said 
this,  I  should  (but  for  my  own  conscientious  conviction  that  I 
could  not  so  have  erred)  be  staggered  by  the  assertion/' 

"  He  said  to  Jack  Belcher  that  he  had  told  you  all." 

"  He  did  not !  Belcher  has  jumped  to  his  conclusions,  and  the 
old  man  has  spoken  vaguely.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  weula 
have  spoken  out,  but  for  a  false  notion  of  delicacy.  Certainly  he 
would  have  done  so,  but  for  the  account  of  your  death,  when  he 
had  no  further  reason  to  see  embarrassment  in  my  marriage  with 
Olive.  O  Harry,  would  to  God  that  the  old  man  had  spoken 
out !  But  he  never  did.  He  dealt  in  hints  and  inuendoes,  the 
amount  of  which  was  that  Olive,  at  some  time  past,  had  been  in 
terested  in  another.  This  was  all  that  I  could  comprehend,  and 
upon  this  hint  I  pressed  Mrs.  Masterton  with  the  keenest  inquiry. 
I  have  already  told  you  what  was  her  answer." 

"  The  miserable  hag !" 

"  It  is  possible  that,  could  I  now  recall  all  that  Walter  said,  in 
his  shrinking,  timid,  doubtful  manner,  I  should  have  the  clue  to 
what  he  meant.  With  my  subsequent  knowledge,  all  might  be 
made  clear.  But  the  old  man,  though  he  spoke  of  another  attach 
ment,  of  secret  meetings — " 

"  Not  so  very  secret.  You  might  have  heard  it  from  a  dozen 
at  Feltham." 

"  But  we  were  not  at  Feltham.     I  did  not  meet  Olive  there. 
Her  mother  and  herself  were  in  lodgings  at  London." 
"  Ha !  London  —  waiting  your  arrival." 
"  But  never  once,  though  Walter  hinted  a  betrothal,  did   lie  or 


THE   MEETING    OF   THE   BROTHERS.  391 

any  o:.e  give  mo  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  $iat  you,  ray 
brother,  were  the  person  who  was  thought  to  have  preceded  me 
in  the  affections  of  Olive." 

"  But  should  not  the  mere  hint  of  the  betrothal,  no  matter  to 
what  person,  have  served  to  check  your  pursuit  ?" 

« It  did—" 

"  Not  very  long." 

"  O  Harry  !  be  not  so  coldly  and  unjustly  incredulous.  It  did 
check  my  pursuit ;  for  I  should  be  the  last  man  to  seek  so  ready 
a  fiancee.  But  I  had  the  most  solemn  assurance  from  the  mother 
of  Olive  that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  report.  She  admitted  that 
there  had  been  some  attention  from  another ;  that,  for  awhile,  she 
fancied  Olive  to  be  impressed,  but  she  was  mistaken ;  that  there 
had  been  no  engagement,  no  impressment ;  and  that  the  affair  was 
all  over,  long  before." 

"  Jezebel !  And  you  never  once  conjectured  that  the  other 
party  was  your  own  brother  ?" 

"  Never,  as  I  hope  for  mercy  !" 

The  eyes  of  Harry  Berkeley  deliberately  addressed  themselves 
to  those  of  his  brother.  He  searched  them  piercingly,  and  with  a 
keen  intensity,  which  seemed  resolutely  to  probe  the  soul  through 
them  to  its  most  secret  depths.  Those  of  the  cassique  were  open  to 
the  scrutiny  as  frankly,  fairly,  broadly,  as  were  the  soft,  blue  skies 
overhead.  They  shrank  not  from  the  search  ;  they  recorded  the 
truthful  utterance  of  his  lips ;  there  could  not  be  a  doubt  of  their 
veracity ;  and  Harry  Berkeley,  however  reluctant  to  believe  — 
however  still  dissatisfied  as  hopeless  —  could  not  fail  to  be  im 
pressed.  He  lifted  his  rapier-point  slowly  from  the  earth,  and 
sent  it  home  with  force  into  the  scabbard. 

"  We  have  played  together,  Edward,"  he  said,  very  slowly  and 
sadly,  tk  as  loving  brothers.  We  have  had,  for  long,  pleasant  sea 
sons,  but  a  single  life  between  us.  Your  money  has  been  mine ; 
you  have  never  given  it  grudgingly ;  and  if  I  suffered  myself  to 
reproach  you  as  the  first-born  of  my  father,  believe  me  I  never 
once  envied  you  your  better  fortune,  not  even  when  I  strove  to 
make  myself  independent  of  it.  O  Edward,  it  was  the  bitterest 
pang  to  me  of  all,  when  I  felt  compelled  to  think  that  you  had 
passed  between  me  and  all  my  hopes,  and  all  that  my  heart  held 
precious,  by  means  of  that  wealth  !" 


392  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"  And  how  could  you  think  that,  my  brother  ?  —  how,  at  least, 
think  that  I  could  do  so  knowingly,  wilfully  ?" 

"  Could  I  think  otherwise,  in  possession  of  such  evidence  ?" 

"  No  evidence  —  nay,  that  of  your  own  senses  even  —  should 
have  sufficed  to  make  you  believe  that  I  could  wrong  you,  in  the 
face  of  such  an  experience  as  ours.  Ah !  Harry,  this  is  among 
the  keenest  pangs  of  my  soul.  What  should  I  not  require  to  be 
lieve  you  false  to  me,  to  honor,  and  the  sweet,  pure  lessons  of  our 
sainted  mother !" 

"  Speak  not  of  her  now"  said  the  other,  in  husky  accents.  "  She, 
at  least,  is  spared  the  sight  of  our  mutual  disappointments." 

"  True  ;  and  yet  how  glad  and  grateful  was  her  hope  !" 

"  She  is  at  rest,  thank  Heaven,  and  can  feel  no  disappointment 
now." 

"  Unless  in  sympathy  with  us !  O  Harry  Berkeley,  if  I  had 
ever  wronged  you  in  this  matter,  or  in  any  matter,  you  have  a 
revenge  such  as  no  sword-stroke  of  yours  could  ever  inflict.  Look 
at  these  locks,  prematurely  gray,  yet  how  little  am  I  your  senior ! 
I  tell  you,  I  now  live  for  nothing — have  lived  in  vain  !  I  strug 
gle —  strive;  for  I  have  turbulent  energies  that  I  must  keep  em 
ployed,  lest,  like  wolves,  in  the  shape  of  pasnons,  they  turn  upon 
and  rend  me.  But,  save  for  this,  I  exercise  mind  and  muscle  to 
no  end.  I  have  no  longer  a  purpose  in  my  work,  as  I  no  longer 
have  a  living  hope  in  my  soul.  Hope  and  ambition  ore  dead 
within  me.  She  for  whom  I  could  have  striven  valiantly  and  no 
bly,  she  is  heedless ;  can  not  heed  even  if  she  would ;  and,  too 
well  I  know,  would  not  if  she  could.  Of  that  I  am  too  painfully 
assured.  Loving  her  as  I  do,  Harry,  would  to  God,  for  your  sake 
and  hers,  I  had  never  seen  her !  Would  to  God  I  could  restore 
her  to  you  now  !  But  prayer  is  now  vain.  She  will  die,  Harr* 
—  you  have  seen  that  —  Olive  will  die!" 

"  Ay  !  to  both  of  us  !" 

"  And  it  is  well  now.  She  could  live  for  neither.  She  has  not 
lived  for  me ;  and  it  may  give  your  heart  a  sad  satisfaction  now 
to  know  that  her  life,  such  as  it  has  been,  has  been  wholly  youra 
I  know  it  now,  too  late  —  too  late  !  Harry  —  it  is  something  verj 
sacred  —  but  hearken." 

Here  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  and  he  drew  his  brother 
aside,  taking  him  by  the  arm :— 


THE   MEETING   OF  THE   BROTHERS.  393 

"  Harry,  all  the  secret  of  her  love  for  you  has  been  delivered 
to  me,  by  her  own  unconscious  lips,  in  her  midnight  dreams,  and 
when  her  senses  seemed  all  to  wander.  Think  of  that,  Harry : 
how  awful !  0  Harry,  though  I  shuddered  to  hear  the  cruel 
story,  yet  a  strange  fascination  bound  me  to  her  side,  and  I  was 
made  fatally  wise  in  regard  to  her  fate,  and  mine,  and  yours  —  all 
so  terribly  bound  up  together  !  Alas  !  we  have  all  been  cruelly 
betrayed.  She  is  not  the  only  victim.  She  has  passed  the  crisis. 
She  is  now  beyond  all  trial  of  the  Fates !" 

"You  do  not  tell  me  that  she  is  —  dead?"  was  the  question  of 
our  rover,  in  hoarse  but  subdued  accents,  as  if  under  a  sudden 
shock,  which  made  him  recoil  from  that  embrace  which  his  brother 
had  unconsciously  taken  about  his  neck. 

"  No  !  oh,  no  !  She  still  lives  ;  but  the  worst  pangs  —  those  of 
the  soul  —  of  its  first  consciousness  of  wreck  and  ruin  —  are  all 
over.  And  still  she  suffers  in  the  body.  But  the  life  of  her  mind, 
now,  is  resolved  into  mere  dream." 

"  Yet  she  grew  to  consciousness,  when  standing  here  between 
us.  That  one  speech,  that  action — " 

"  Was  probably  the  last  effort  of  the  lingering  mind.  All  is 
delirium  now7,  and  vacancy.  She  will  probably  never  again  know 
us,  except  in  the  last  struggle  which  looses  the  silver  cord  of 
life." 

"  Edward,  I  would  be  near  her  then.  I  must,  I  tell  you  — 
must  catch  her  last  look,  hear  her  last  murmurs,  see  the  light  go 
out  of  her  eyes.  I  feel  that  she  will  know  me  then.  I  must  be 
present." 

"  Go  to  her  now;  be  with  her  always  —  to  the  last.  She  may 
linger  thus  for  weeks :  she  may  sigh  out  life  in  an  hour." 

"  No,  not  now  !  I  can  not  see  her  now  !  Edward,  my  brother 
when  I  waited  for  you  this  evening,  I  fully  thought  that  there 
could  be  no  explanation  between  us  save  one  —  that  of  the  sword. 
I  felt,  my  brother,  that  I  could  slay  you ;  felt  sure  that,  having 
so  wronged  me,  you  would  strive  probably  to  slay  me.  I  have 
had  dire  and  desperate  thoughts,  Edward !  Forgive  me  these 
thoughts ;  forgive  me  that  I  could  so  easily  forget  our  boyhood, 
and  our  boyhood's  mother,  as  to  meditate  your  death.  But,  it 
was  a  madness,  my  brother,  rather  than  a  thought !  I  have  been 
a  madman  for  a  long  season,  and  have  done  the  mad^^st  things." 

17* 


894  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Tell  me  of  yourself,  Harry,"  in  low,  sweet  accents ;  and  the 
hand  of  the  cassique  gently  stole  once  more  about  the  neck  of  our 
rover. 

"  No,  no !  nothing  now.  There  will  be  a  better  time  for  this, 
when  we  meet  under  a  canopy  of  cloud,  with  the  badges  of  stately 
mourning  all  around,  and  the  signs  of  death  staring  the  life  out  of 
our  own  eyes.  Ask  me  then,  when  we  are  standing,  perchance, 
over  the  bier  of — of — ay,  Edward,  the  bier  of  Olive  Masterton 

—  ask  me  then.     It  will  be  a  proper  time.     We  must  part  now." 
"  Whither  would  you  go,  Harry  ?" 

"  Whither  ?     As  the  winds  drive  !     What  matters  whither  ?" 

"  But  you  will  go  with  me  ?  Be  with  me  now,  Harry,  since 
Fate  so  thoroughly  restores  you  to  me  !  Come  with  me  ;  all  here 
is  yours.  I  and  mine  are  yours,  Harry  !  —  Olive,  too,  is  yours  !" 

And  the  brave  cassique  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  while 
deep  sobs  broke  from  his  lips.  Harry  Berkeley  turned  away  ab 
ruptly,  as  if  to  depart ;  possibly  to  subdue  his  own  emotions. 

The  other  pursued  and  clasped  him  in  his  arms. 

"  Let  us  not  part  now,  Harry.     Go  with  me  !" 

"  No,  Edward,  not  now.     I  must  go  elsewhere  :  I  have  duties." 

This  was  said  very  calmly,  as  if  the  passions  had  been  all  sub 
dued.  The  cassique  clung  to  him. 

"  Duties  !     What  are  you  doing  ?  how  came  you  here  ?  wrhence 

—  why  ?  and  where  have  you  been  these  many,  many  months  ?    I 
have  so  much  to  hear,  Harry !" 

"  And  I  so  much  to  tell  —  if  it  will  bear  telling,  or  if  I  could 
speak !  But  it  will  only  pain  me  to  do  so,  and  scarcely  please 
you.  Let  me  go  now,  Edward.  Another  time !  There  is  time 
enough  for  all.  —  Hark  !  some  one  calls/' 

They  both  looked  about.  The  nurse,  with  the  child  in  her  arms, 
rapidly  approached  them  and  addressed  the  cassique. 

«  O  sir  !•— " 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?" 

"  My  lady,  sir  —  she 's  raving,  worse  than  ever.  Mrs.  Master- 
ton  begs  you  to  come." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me,  Harry  ?" 

The  other  strode  to  and  fro.     Then  quickly — 

"  No,  Edward,  not  now ;  not  while  she  raves.  But  there  will 
come  an  hour  when  I  shall  be  with  you." 


THE   MEETING   OP   THE   BROTHERS.  39t> 

"  Why  not  see  her  now  ?     Perhaps — " 

"  See  her — now  !  and  while  she  raves  !  I  that  have  never  seen 
her  save  when  her  soul  was  placid  as  that  of  an  angel !  See  if, 
now  in  storm  !  No,  no  ;  God  of  heaven,  save  me  from  such  sight ! 
'T  would  madden  me,  too,  Edward  Berkeley,  and  I  should  forget 
that  we  have  spoken  in  words  of  peace — " 

"  And  love,  too,  Harry  !" 

"  I  should  forget  all,  but  her  wrongs  and  my  own.  I  will  not 
see  her  now.  Enough  that  I  have  seen  her :  and  such  a  wreck 
of  love,  and  happiness,  and  beauty  !  Away  !  Go  you,  Edward ; 
go  quickly !" 

"  I  must.  Yet,  0  my  brother,  say  that  I  am  forgiven  the  UP- 
conscious  share  I  have  had  in  this  threefold  work  of  wo  !  Though 
guilty  of  no  treachery,  I- feel  that  I  too  have  been  weak  and  mis 
erably  blind.  I  have  suffered  my  own  passions  to  cloud  my 
senses  and  baffle  my  reason.  But  for  this,  all  would  have  been 
well  with  all  of  us !" 

"  Ah,  no  more  !     Hell's  curses  upon  that  she-fiend  ! — " 

"  Curse  not,  Harry  !"  very  solemnly.  "  Even  at  this  very  mo 
ment,  Olive — " 

"  Ah  !   go  to  her,  Edward." 

"  You  will  now  grasp  my  hand  —  we  may  now  embrace,  dear 
Harry !"  was  the  pleading,  faltering  speech  of  the  cassique ;  and 
the  brothers  fell  into  each  other's  arms  !  One  violent  grasp  —  one 
close,  passionate  embrace  ;  the  big  tears  gathering  from  both  eyes ; 
heavy,  choking  sobs,  bursting  from  both  bosoms ;  their  manly 
frames  trembling  with  the  emotions  of  their  souls  —  and  they  tore 
themselves  asunder. 

The  cassique  sped  toward  the  dwelling,  never  once  looking  behind 
him.  Harry  watched  him  as  he  went.  Then,  as  he  turned,  h» 
discovered  the  nurse  with  the  child  close  beside  him.  Confound*^ 
by  what  she  saw,  the  woman  had  lingered.  She  had  witnessed 
the  parting  embrace  of  the  brothers  —  heard  their  passionate  lan 
guage  ;  they  wholly  forgetful  of  her  presence. 

The  moment  Harry  Berkeley  beheld  her,  he  said  — 

"  Ha !  it  is  Olive's  child  !" 

And  he  took  the  infant  quickly,  but  tenderly  enough,  from  th« 
arms  of  the  nurse.  He  held  it  aloft,  and  gazed  in  its  soft  blue 
eyes.  And  it  smiled  upon  him,  and  cooed  with  its  little  lips 


396  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

And  he  felt  how  like  it  was,  in  feature,  to  himself.  Giving  it 
back  to  the  nurse,  he  murmured  — 

"It  is  Olive's  child  —  Olive's,  but  not  mine!" 

Then,  without  further  look  or  word,  he  turned  away,  and  with 
rapid  strides  soon  buried  himself  in  the  thickets.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  he  was  upon  his  steed,  and  going  at  a  rapid  pace  through 
the  forest, 


COILS,    CARES,   AND   CLUES.  397 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

COILS,    CARES,   AND    CLUES. 

"  Coils,  which  are  cares,  but  grow  to  clues,  if  Care 
Will  heedfully  unwind  them,  and  march  on, 
The  string  in  hand,  to  where  the  end  awaits ! 
It  is  your  dullard  dodges  from  his  care, 
Nor  knows  it  as  a  missile,  to  be  caught, 
Aud  hurled  back  to  the  cricketeer  of  Fate." —  Old  Play. 

RAPID  motion,  in  the  case  of  all  persons  of  highly-sanguine 
temperament,  compels  thought ;  that  is  to  say,  in  the  case  of  peo 
ple  who  liave  brains  enough,  at  any  time,  for  such  exercise  !  The 
mere  temperament  may  be  a  motor  to  the  reason ;  a  stimulating 
force,  as  steam  to  the  engine  ;  but  it  is  not  the  faculty  itself.  Such 
men  as  Harry  Berkeley  (or  Calvert,  for  we  must  still  continue  to 
know  him  by  both  names)  think  in  action.  There  is  a  consenta 
neous  working  of  blood,  and  brain,  and  body,  to  a  common  end 
and  object ;  the  only  sort  of  working  which  is  worth.  This  con 
sentaneous  working  makes  the  action  in  the  cast)  of  the  orator. 
The  effect,  in  that  of  our  hero,  who  did  not  pretend  to  oratory, 
would  be,  as  in  general  with  most  of  good  Anglo-Norman  stock, 
the  stroke  and  shout  together ;  the  eye  will  be  clear  the  while, 
affording  that  greatest  virtue  in  the  military  man,  the  exercise  of 
the  coup  d'ceil;  the  judgment  will  be  really  quickened,  and  more 
admirable,  with  the  sense  of  danger  once  awakened. 

So  it  was,  that  the  moment  Harry  Calvert  began  to  gallop,  he 
began  to  think.  And  very  various,  indeed,  were  the  topics  which 
now  pressed  upon  his  thoughts.  Ship  and  crew;  brother  and 
wife  ;  his  own  wife  ;  the  machinations  of  the  conspirators  among 
his  people ;  the  machinations  of  the  red  men  against  the  colony : 


398  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KlAWAII. 

all  these  in  turn,  and  all  together,  crowded  upon  his  thought  and 
memory  —  his  steed,  meanwhile,  beginning  to  suffer  under  the 
infliction  of  the  spur. 

But  the  rider  did  not  reason  the  less  closely  and  correctly  be 
cause  of  the  fleetness  of  his  motion ;  and  when,  after  nightfall,  he 
reached  the  precincts  of  the  creek  where  his  vessel  found  harbor 
age,  he  had  properly  digested  all  his  plan  of  operations  in  regard 
to  the  subjects  most  pressing  upon  his  anxieties. 

Events  were  ripening  fast  to  their  several  issues,  and  he  gath 
ered  up  all  their  clues. 

He  did  not  go  on  board  the  vessel ;  but,  lurking  in  the  thickets, 
approached  on  foot,  near  enough  to  make  his  signals,  which,  after 
awhile,  procured  him  a  secret  interview  with  young  Will  Hazard, 
the  youth  whose  adroit  practice  had  first  put  him  in  possession  of 
the  secret  of  those  who  were  willing  to  run  up  the  "  Jolly  Roger.'* 
Having  made  a  final  disposition  of  all  the  matters  between  them, 
he  sent  Hazard  back  to  the  ship,  and  betook  himself  to  a  body  of 
forest  in  which  he  had  tethered  his  horse.  Here  he  snatched  a 
few  hours  of  much-needed  sleep.  With  the  dawn  he  was  again 
mounted ;  and  this  time,  picking  his  way  slowly  and  cautiously, 
he  descended  the  country,  keeping  as  closely  as  he  could  to  the 
river,  until  he  reached  Gowdey's  castle,  at  Oldtown,  where  he 
found  a  late  breakfast  awaiting  him,  and  old  Gowdey  eager  for 
his  return. 

He  had  given  the  veteran  full  employment,  nor  had  the  latter 
neglected  any  of  his  commissions.  He  had  manned  his  castle,  in 
secret,  with  fourteen  sturdy  fellows,  old  sea-dogs,  foresters,  and 
craftsmen ;  men  who  could  put  their  hands  to  anything ;  could 
handle  musket  or  oar  with  equal  dexterity ;  and,  having  passed 
through  most  of  the  roughening  processes  of  life,  without  having 
reaped  any  of  the  rewards  of  fortune,  were  just  as  ready  for  new 
enterprise  as  the  most  ardent  young  fellow  of  twenty-one. 

His  little  garrison  was  well  armed  from  the  magazine  of  the 
Happy-go-Lucky.  Gowdey  had  drilled  them  after  his  mixed 
fashion ;  the  sailor  and  the  forester  blending  oddly  enough  in  his 
nature.  He  had  been  careful  to  observe  the  injunctions  of  Cal- 
vert,  and  had  maintained  the  strictest  secresy  in  his  operations. 
His  fellows  had  been  smuggled  in  under  cover  of  the  night ;  and 
while,  to  all  without,  the  old  castle  presented  its  wonted  aspect  of 


COILS,    CARES,    AND   CLUES.  399 

solitude  and  feebleness,  no  one,  white  or  red,  could  suspect  its  in 
crease  of  society  and  strength. 

The  creature-comforts  had  not  been  forgotten.  Preparations 
were  made  even  for  a  siege.  Casks  of  bacon,  barrels  of  flour  and 
biscuit,  potatoes,  and  other  stores,  had  been  provided,  as  well  as 
all  essential  munitions  of  war,  rendering  the  castle  a  complete 
house  of  refuge  for  the  contiguous  country,  in  the  event  of  any 
sudden  outbreak  among  the  red  men. 

Nor  had  the  veteran  been  heedless  of  what  had  been  going  on 
without.  To  use  his  own  words  : — 

"  I  've  been  a-scoutin',  captain.  Soon  as  I  got  these  fellows  in 
garrison,  and  found  a  man  among  'em  I  could  trust,  to  keep  all 
dark  and  close,  jest  as  ef  I  was  here^myself,  I  put  out,  and  have 
had  a  good  smart  cruise  round  about  the  country.  I  went  off 
west,  to  the  Stonoe  river ;  then  I  tuk  down  the  river,  among  the 
Stonoes  and  Cussoboes;  and  spread  out,  right  and  left,  to  tte 
settlements  of  the  Wadmalahs  and  Kiawahs." 

"  "Well,  what  discoveries  ?" 

"  It 's  clear  we  're  to  have  a  risin' !  The  warriors  ain't  no 
where.  They  're  off  in  the  thick  somewhere  ;  but  where,  there  's 
no  tellin'.  I  skairted  two  camps  of  them,  both  Wadmalahs,  but 
could  n't  git  too  nigh ;  for  they  had  their  scouts  out,  and  busy. 
It  tuk  all  I  had  of  wood-cunnin'  to  see  what  I  did,  and  git  off 
without  showin'  my  heels ;  but  I  did  !  Old  Cussoboe  was  gone 
above,  with  all  his  men.  That  I  got  out  of  an  old  squaw,  for  a 
tin  cup  I  carried.  But  she  would  tell  me  no  more.  The  women 
in  the  settlements,  I  could  see,  wor  oneasy.  They  had  everything 
ready  for  a  start  at  a  moment's  warnin'.  So  that,  I  reckon,  you 
wor  jest  as  near  right,  in  your  calkilations  of  a  risin',  as  ever  was 
a  man  yit  that  know'd  the  meanin'  of  an  Injiri  sign." 

"  Did  you  warn  any  of  the  whites  ?" 

"  Did  n't  see  many,  your  honor.  I  'm  afraid  they'll  have  to  pay 
for  it  with  their  wool,  same  as  ever.  When  once  these  traders 
are  on  the  scent  of  a  good  trade,  they  won't  smell  even  the  sul 
phur  of  hell's  fires,  though  it 's  a-blazin'  under  their  very  noses ! 
I  met  a  Dutchman  and  three  Scotchmen,  and  each  a-horseback, 
and  a  great  pack  behind  him ;  and  I  says,  '  Look  you,  you  're 
a-guine  to  a  most  bloody  market.'  And  the  Dutchman  says, 
'  Himmel !  de  plut  is  goot  in  de  market !'  When  I  told  him 


400  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

'zactly  what  I  meant,  he  answered  by  showin'  a  great  pistol,  and, 
looking  brave  enough,  said,  *  I  vill  show  de  red  rascals  dis  leetle 
gon  !'  And  much  would  they  mind  his  little  gun !  He  'd  git  the 
arrow  through  his  great  belly,  out  of  the  woods,  and  never  see 
the  chap  that  held  the  bow.  The  Scotchmen  wor  all  three  to 
gether,  and  had  a  sort  of  consult  about  what  I  told  them ;  but 
they  had  a  young  fellow  who  was  a  kind  of  leader,  and  he  laughed 
at  Injin  fightin',  and  they  all  agreed  to  push  for'ard.  It  seems 
that  a  party  of  seven,  with  great  packs,  had  gone  ahead,  and  they 
wanted  to  overhaul  'em,  lest  they  should  take  off  the  edge  of  the 
market  before  they  could  get  up." 

"  Whither  were  they  bound  ?" 

"Toward  the  Savano  town,  where,  they  tell,  there's  a  larg 
gatherin'  of  the  Injins  —  the  Westoes,  Savanoes,  Isundigoes,  an 
Coosaws  —  for  a  great  ball-play.   'Cordin'  to  the  Scotchmen,  there  '11 
be  a  thousand  of  the  red-skins,  and  maybe  more,  at  the  gath- 
rrin' !" 

"  Can  Cussoboe  be  off  among  these  people  ?  Is  it  possible  that 
he  has  brought  them  together  with  reference  to  his  own  ob 
ject?" 

"  I  reckon  not,  your  honor.  I  believe  what  the  old  woman  says. 
I  reckon  he's  gone  above,  to  the  heads  of  the  Edisto,  to  bring 
down  the  great  power  of  his  own  tribe,  that  hadn't  come  down, 
and  ginerally  do  n't  come  down,  till  the  corn 's  laid  by ;  that  is, 
sometime  late  in  July  and  the  first  weeks  in  August.  It 's  not 
likely  that  he  '11  try  to  work  in  more  tribes  than  his  own ;  for 
these  Injins  are  greedy  after  what  they  can  git,  and  do  n't  want 
too  many  to  share  the  sp'ile.  And  that 's  one  reason  why  they 
can 't  keep  together  in  large  bodies  for  very  long :  they  grudges 
to  give  up  anything  they  git.  I  reckon  old  Cussoboe  has  marked 
out  everything,  at  our  white  cassique's,  for  himself ;  and  that 's 
one  reason  why  he 's  put  his  own  son  there.  He  '11  set  the  other 
chiefs  of  his  people  to  lookin'  for  their  prog  in  other  quarters. 
There's  a  small  settlement  of  Scotch  and  English  down  upon 
South  Edisto,  close  to  the  salts.  They  have  n't  been  there  long ; 
and  I  hear  there 's  a  bigger  Scotch  settlement  at  Beaufort,  under 
a  great  Scotch  lord.  Ef  the  Injins  are  uprisin',  ginerally,  they  '11 
all  be  cut  off,  unless  they  git  warnin'  in  time,  and  are  sensible 
enough  to  take  it." 


401 

"  And,  in  an  Indian  outbreak,  we  must  always  expect  a  rising 
to  be  more  or  less  general.  If  it  takes  in  only  the  tribes  of  one 
nation,  they  will  suffice  for  the  work  of  destruction." 

"  I  could  n't  stretch  away  fur  enough,  captain,  to  give  'em  warn- 
in'  on  the  Edisto  and  at  Beaufort.  I  had,  you  know,  enough  to 
consider  and  watch  here  ;  more  at  home,  as  I  may  say.  But,  ef 
you  think — " 

"  No !  you  will  be  wanted  here.  We  must  try  and  warn  them 
by  boats  from  the  sea.  That  will  be  safer  and  easier.  I  will  see 
to  that  to-night." 

"  To-night,  sir  !"  with  a  smile.  "  Why,  I  reckon  to-night  you'll 
be  at  the  grand  fandango  and  misdemeanor  ball,  at  Lady  Ander 
son's,  in  town.  There 's  to  be  old  fun,  and  big  splinters,  and  all- 
tearin'  music  and  dancin'  there,  to-night!  Hain't  you  heard?  — 
ain't  you  axed  to  the  music  ?" 

Our  rover  smiled. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am,  Gowdey ;  and  it  is  possible  I  may  be 
there." 

"  'Twill  suit  you,  captain,  for  everybody  's  to  go  in  his  own  dis- 
guisin's,  jest  as  he  pleases,  and  wear  what  sort  of  coat  suits  his 
idees ;  and  he  can  kiver  his  face  with  a  kind  of  black  curt'in  that 
they  calls  a  mask.  Ah !  I  have  it  now :  the  party  is  a  masker- 
adies  !  —  that's  it.  It's  a  big  word  for  a  sailor,  that's  got  but  half 
a  jaw  for  his  speakin',  and  t'other  half  for  his  quid." 

'•  I  may  look  in  upon  the  masqueraders,  Gowdey,  but  can  hard 
ly  be  among  them.  At  all  events,  I  can  snatch  opportunity 
enough,  I  think,  to  send  off  a  boat  to  the  settlement  at  Beaufort. 
What  you  tell  me  of  these  traders,  and  the  settlements,  troubles 
me.  I  fear  the  mischief  is  more  general  than  we  thought  it. 
These  settlements  are  all  in  danger.  They  seem  to  have  no 
sense  of  it;  they  have  taken  no  precautions.  The  authorities 
here  despise  the  red  men  too  much ;  and,  indeed,  having  been  for 
some  time  quiet  and  peaceable,  they  have  furnished  natural  rea 
sons  why  the  whites  should  be  lulled  into  security.  This  large 
gathering  of  the  Indians  to  the  south  of  us,  if  true,  is  an  im 
posing  fact.  It  is  too  late  in  the  season  for  the  ball-play. 
They  have  other  festivities,  it  is  true  —  the  green-corn  dance, 
and—" 

"Oh!  there's  always  some  rolly-polly's  goin' on  among  'em! 


402  THE   CASSIQUE    JF   KIAWAH. 

They  're  jest  like  our  white  folks,  after  all.  Only  let  the  drum 
beat,  or  the  trumpet  blow,  or  the  fife  squeak,  or  squeeze  the  Scotch 
man's  bags ;  or  jest  fling  a  handful  of  pebbles  in  a  tin  kittle,  and 
rattle  away,  and  swig  liquor  all  the  while ;  and  the  monkeys  will 
crowd  about  the  pole  from  a  thousand  quarters,  and  grin,  and 
shake  their  legs,  and  catch  hold  of  any  partners.'* 

"  True  enough !  But  the  tribes  do  not  usually-  congregate  in 
such  numbers,  so  far  from  their  own  council-houses,  for  any  ordi 
nary  music.  There  is  danger  that  all  these  traders  will  lose  their 
scalps." 

"  Like  enough  !  I  warned  'em  to  take  a  good  feel  of  the  wool 
on  their  sculps,  for  they  worn't  likely  to  feel  it  very  long.  But 
they  wor  all  full  of  braggadocio,  under  that  young  fellow's  lead ; 
and,  as  they  all  carried  pistols,  they  talked  as  ef  they  wor  an 
army.*' 

"  Well,  we  can  do  nothing  for  them.  But  the  settlements  w« 
may  be  in  season  to  save." 

"Yes,  ef  you  can  send  right  away  —  this  very  night  —  and  ef 
so  be  they  believe  you  after  they  hear." 

"  Lord  Cardross  is  a  stout  soldier,  and  his  heart 's  in  his  colony. 
He  will  probably  take  counsel.  We  must  try,  at  all  events,  to 
make  him  do  so.  This  large  gathering  of  the  Indians,  assuming 
the  report  to  be  true,  argues  something  beyond  the  usual  Indian 
policy.  I  suspect  the  Spanish  guarda  costas  are  again  upon  the 
coast,  and  busy  in  secret.  If  so,  Beaufort  is  in  danger.  They 
may  even  meditate  mischief  here,  at  Charleston.  The  place  is 
without  good  defences.  A  single  brigantine,  well  officered,  could 
destroy  the  town  in  three  hours." 

"  You  think  so,  captain  ?" 

"  Think  for  yourself.  What 's  the  value  of  the  palmetto  fort 
which  they  have  at  Oyster  point  ?  Of  what  use  the  mud  crescent 
at  the  Governor's  creek  ?  And  if  an  enemy  came  through  Wap- 
poo  into  Kiawah,  save  your  own  one  gun,  Gowdey,  no  other  could 
be  brougnt  ro  bear  upon  her,  and  that  could  do  no  mischief  if  she 
took  a  position  southwest  of  the  town.  If  I  were  quite  free  at 
this  moment,  I  would  run  round  with  the  Happy-go-Lucky  to  Port 
Royal,  and  see  for  the  Spaniards  myself." 

"  'T  would  be  famous  fun  to  git  in  among  them  guarda  costas, 
and  catch  the  dons  nappin' !  I  'd  jest  like  to  have  a  few  cracks 


t 


COILS,   CARES,    AND    CLUES.  403 

at  'em  myself,  ef  only  to  pay  off  old  scores.  They  had  me  nine 
months,  hard  at  work,  with  a  bracelet  on  the  ankle,  at  their  cus 
sed  castle  at  St.  Augustine.  I  owe  'em  the  weight  of  that  iron 
bracelet,  in  iron  bullets,  at  the  rate  of  nine  pounds  a  day  for  nine 
months ;  and  whenever  you  can  say  to  me,  *  Gowdey,  come,  pay 
off  them  scores  with  the  Spaniards,'  you  '11  not  find  an  old  salt 
more  ready  for  a  new  craft  or  a  fresh  quid !" 

We  must  not  pursue  the  dialogue,  though  in  its  progress  be 
tween  the  parties  it  involved  a  great  variety  of  details,  minor  cer 
tainly,  but  all  bearing  upon  the  several  necessities  which  con 
cerned  the  fortunes  of  the  personages  in  our  history.  Besides,  it 
consumed  the  day.  Calvert  lingered  with  Gowdey  till  dark,  ma 
king  final  arrangements  in  reference  to  the  approaching  issues ; 
and  was  then,  under  cover  of  the  night,  paddled  over  to  the  thick 
ets  of  the  opposite  shore,  whence  he  made  his  way  to  the  town  on 
foot. 

Here,  at  an  appointed  place,  he  found  Jack  Belcher  and  our 
old  acquaintance  Franks,  who  were  both  eager  for  his  coming, 
and  in  no  little  consternation.  Belcher  had  received  a  private 
despatcli  from  the  ship,  reporting  the  fact  that,  only  the  night 
before,  the  prisoner,  Gideon  Fairchild  (whom  Sylvester,  alias 
Still  water,  had  procured  to  be  sent  to  New  York,  as  express, 
on  the  part  of  the  governor),  had  made  his  escape ;  as  it  was 
supposed  through  the  agency  of  the  mulattress  Sylvia,  the  maid 
servant  of  the  fair  Zulieme,  as  she  too  had  disappeared  from  the 
vessel. 

Nothing  further  was  known.  There  were  no  clues.  Sylvia 
had  been  seen  in  close  communication  with  Gideon,  in  the  hold 
where  he  was  kept ;  but  how  she  had  effected  his  release  from  his 
irons,  and  his  escape  from  the  ship,  nothing  was  stated.  The  two 
had  probably  got  into  the  forests,  and  were  making,  or  had  possi 
bly  made,  their  way  to  town  —  having  had  ample  time  for  it,  even 
by  the  longest  route. 

Here  was  a  danger.  It  argued  great  laxity  of  discipline  on 
board  the  ship,  and  our  rover  now  began  to  reproach  himself  bit 
terly  for  having  suffered  his  private  affairs  and  feelings  to  endan 
ger  the  safety  of  his  people ;  for,  once  in  town,  Gideon  Fairchild 
carried  a  perilous  secret,  with  which  the  cunning  Sylvester  could 
compel  the  governor  to  action  against  the  vessel  and  crew  — 


404  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

which,  as  we  well  know,  he  would  otherwise  gladly  avoid.  And 
against  this  danger  even  the  fertile  genius  of  Harry  Calvert  had 
no  remedy. 

But  he  seemed  neither  surprised  nor  disconcerted. 

"  Have  you  any  tidings  of  a  boat  from  the  ship  ?  Has  Holy- 
neaux  reached  town,  or  Fowler  ?" 

"  Not  yet  —  not  that  we  know." 

"  Keep  a  sharp  lookout.     You  know  what  is  to  be  done." 

To  Franks  he  said  : — 

"  Have  you  had  your  eyes  on  Sylvester  ?  Has  he  been  to  the 
governor  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  but  he  has  been  out  of  town,  and  is  out  of  town  now, 
I  believe." 

"Whither  did  he  go?" 

"  We  could  n't  find  out.  We  only  believe  him  absent  because 
we  see  nothing  of  him.  If  he  left  town,  he  did  so  between  two 
days.  He 's  been  very  quiet." 

"  He  has  outwitted  you,  I  am  afraid.  But  we  must  prepare 
against  him  as  well  as  we  can.  You  have" —  to  Belcher  —  "  pre 
pared  for  the  arrival  of  Will  Hazard  and  his  party  ?" 

"  He 's  at  his  place  long  before  this." 

"  And  a  good  boat's-crew  ready  at  the  lagune  ?" 

"  Five  stout  fellows,  regular  sea-dogs,  and  well  tried." 

"  Good !  Keep  close  watch  on  the  approaches  from  the  river, 
and  upon  the  house  of  Mrs.  Anderson.  You  have  provided 
masks  for  all  of  us,  Franks  ?" 

"All,  sir." 

"  Very  good.  I  shall  not  fail  you.  I  shall  leave  you  for  an 
hour  or  two.  It  is  still  early.  Let  no  mouse  stir  without  seeing 
it!" 

And  so  he  left  them,  and  the  two  separated  on  their  several 
duties. 

Half  an  hour  later,  our  rover  was  closeted  with  his  excellency 
Governor  Quarry.  The  governor  was  in  good  spirits.  These 
were  soon  dashed  by  the  tidings  Calvert  brought.  But,  before 
he  spoke  of  those  which  most  affected  his  own  private  for 
tunes,  he  opened  the  one  topic  of  most  importance  to  the  col- 
any: — 

"Your  excellency  has,  I  fear,  taken  no  steps   in   regard  to 


COILS,    5ARES,    AND    CLUES.  405 

the  report  I  made  you  touching  the  movements  of  the  red 
men." 

"  What,  still  piping  to  that  tune,  captain  ?" 

"  It  is  one  to  which  you  will  probably  be  made  to  dance,  when 
you  least  expect  it !  I  now  beg  you  to  despatch  a  fly-boat,  or 
periagua,  with  all  haste,  to  the  colony  of  my  Lord  Cardross,  and 
to  another  colony  of  Scotch,  said  to  be  in  his  neighborhood,  some 
where  along  the  Edisto,  advising  them  to  put  themselves  instantly 
under  arms  against  the  red  men  and  the  Spaniards !  I  have  rea 
son  to  think  that  there  is  present  danger  from  both." 

"  You  are  not  serious  ?" 

"  I  have  long  since  ceased  to  jest." 

The  governor  rose,  and  stood  up  before  Calvert. 

"  My  dear  captain,  you  are  one  of  the  most  mysterious  men 
living!  Where  have  you  been  all  this  while?  —  what  doing? 
What  keeps  you  from  the  sea,  now  that  the  chief  business  is  over 
with  which  you  came  into  port  ?  for  I  feel  pretty  sure,  from  what 
I  hear,  that  you  have  emptied  your  ship.  You  have  at  least  filled 
the  town  with  your  goods.  The  thing  is  spoken  of  openly." 

"  But  they  have  no  clue  to  the  ship's  anchorage  ?" 

"No!  that  adds  to  the  mystery.  Where  have  you  hidden 
her?" 

"  Better  that  even  you  should  not  know.  You  will  the  more 
innocently  answer.  At  all  events,  you  must  not  expect  me  to 
answer  all  the  queries  you  put  to  me." 

"  But  how  is  it  that  you  know  so  much  of  the  settlements,  of 
those  subjects  which  are  so  especially  my  own  —  the  condition  of 
the  colony,  its  dangers,  and  the  red  men  and  the  Spaniards  ?  'Pon 
my  soul,  though  not  much  vexed  with  that  verdant  passion  which 
poets  call  ambition,  I  begin  to  feel  a  little  jealous  of  you,  with 
your  mysterious  knowings  in  my  province." 

"  Do  not  suffer  any  such  childish  feeling  to  disparage  the  im 
portance  of  what  I  say.  Act  promptly  upon  my  report.  Write 
to  my  Lord  Cardross,  as  cautiously  as  you  please,  but  still  write 
him,  to  put  his  people  under  arms,  and  employ  all  his  vigilance, 
as  well  by  sea  as  land ;  and  send  your  despatches  this  very  night 
Believe  me,  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost." 

"  Well,  you  do  seem  very  serious,  and  I  do  not  see  but  that  I 
may  safely  adopt  your  counsel." 


406  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  You  will  be  prudent  to  do  so." 

"  But  I  hate  these  perpetual  alarms  about  the  Indians.  Half 
the  time  they  make  a  governor  ridiculous." 

"  Scarcely,  unless  he  makes  himself  so.  You  will  not  do  this. 
You  have  only  to  write  a  plain  letter,  to  the  effect  stated ;  adding 
that  the  rumors  may  be  groundless,  but  that  the  precaution  will 
be  proper.  You  need  say  no  more,  except  to  urge  the  notorious 
treachery  of  the  red  men ;  the  cunning  and  hostility  of  the  Span 
iards  ;  their  frequent  invasion  ;  the  near  neighborhood  of  St.  Au 
gustine  to  Beaufort;  the  fact  that  the  prevailing  winds  are  favor 
able  from  that  quarter ;  and,  further,  that  you  have  advices  that 
the  governor  of  St.  Augustine  has  just  received  an  additional 
force  of  three  new,  light  brigantines  from  Havana,  each  mounting 
ten  guns." 

"  How  know  you  that  ?" 

"  By  my  own  discovery.  I  crossed  them  on  my  voyage  hither, 
and  would  have  fought  them,  but  that  my  ship  was  too  deeply 
loaded,  and  with  a  cargo  quite  too  valuable,  to  peril  against 
a  force  so  superior  —  and  the  crews  of  which  had  nothing  to 
lose." 

"  But  about  the  red  men  ?  How  is  it  that  you  can  hear  these 
things,  and  I  nothing?  I  have  had  my  emissaries  out,  too,  and 
they  report  everything  quiet.  The  traders  go  and  come.  I  gave 
thirty-eight  commissions  to  as  many  Scotchmen  only  three  days 
ago,  to  carry  on  their  traffic  in  the  Indian  lands,  to  and  up  the 
Savannah,  to  Echoee." 

"  They  will  probably,  every  man  of  them,  lose  his  scalp." 

"  Pshaw,  my  dear  captain  !  this  is  being  too  oracular  and  pro 
phetic,  surely.  Come,  come,  we  will  hear  to  evidence,  but  not 
prophecy.  How  is  it  that  you  can  arrive  at  these  things  —  you, 
a  mere  looker-on  —  and  I,  whose  very  business  it  is,  should  know 
nothing?  —  I,  too,  who  have  my  agents  and  scouts  constantly  go 
ing  to  and  fro  !" 

"  Did  they  tell  you,  these  scouts,  of  the  great  gathering  of  the 
Indians  on  Savannah  ?" 

"  Ay,  for  a  ball-play,  or  some  such  Indian  junketing." 

"  A  thousand  Indians,  on  our  seaboard,  gathered  to  a  ball-play, 
and  at  this  season  of  the  year,  is  by  no  means  a  common  event. 
But,  did  your  scouts  report  that  the  red  warriors  south  of  us  were 


COILS,    CARES,    AND   CLUES.  407 

temporarily  separated  from  their  women,  and  were  nowhei-e  visi 
ble  except  in  secret  camps  ?' 

"  No  !     That  I  did  not  hear." 

"  There  are  many  things,  my  dear  governor,  which  you  will 
never  hear,  though  you  had  a  thousand  scouts,  unless  you  were 
sure  of  those  who  know  the  business.  Scouting  is  a,  beautiful  art. 
Your  Scotch  traders  have  yet  to  learn  it.  Had  you  some  that  I 
could  mention,  they  would  soon  change  your  notion  of  the  aspect 
of  affairs.  I  took  the  liberty  to  counsel  you  some  time  ago  to  fit 
up  and  reman  the  castle  at  Oldtown.  Did  you  do  so  ?" 

"  No,  faith,  I  did  not.  Old  Gowdey  came  to  me  also  on  the 
subject,  and  he  had  suspicions  like  yo<irs ;  but  I  fancied  that  the 
old  sea-dog  only  wanted  to  get  an  increase  of  importance  and 
pay—" 

"  And  what  did  I  want,  giving  the  same  counsel  ?" 

The  governor  was  taken  aback  by  the  question,  and  answered 
with  some  confusion  : — 

"  Oh,  zounds,  captain !  you  are  too  close,  too  keen,  too  sharp 
at  logical  conclusions.  Of  courtse,  you  wanted  nothing,  except  — 
except — " 

"  To  give  advice ;  to  increase  my  own  importance,  as  old  Gow- 
dey  desired  to  increase  his,  eh?" 

"  Faith,  I  confess,  such  was  somewhat  my  thought." 

"  I  forgive  you,  my  dear  governor,  especially  as  I  took  leave  to 
repair  your  neglect  —  I  trust,  without  subjecting  your  administra 
tion  to  reproach." 

"  Why,  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"  To  show  you  what  sort  of  scouts  you  employ,  and  what  reli 
ance  you  may  place  upon  their  reports,  know  that  the  Oldtown 
castle  has  been  manned  with  fourteen  stout  soldiers  and  sea-dogs, 
besides  old  Gowdey ;  that  each  of  these  has  his  musket,  pistols, 
and  a  plenty  of  ammunition ;  and  that  the  provisions  are  ample 
for  a  siege  of  three  weeks.  Yet,  though,  according  to  Gowdey's 
report,  no  less  than  five  of  your  scouts  have  been  to  see  him  — • 
called  in  passing  —  since  this  change  has  b«en  made,  not  one  has 
seen  or  suspects  it." 

"The  devil!  you  say  —  and  —  and  —  my  dear  captain  —  you 
say  that  you  have  done  all  this  —  engaged  all  these  beef-eaters, 
in  government  name,  and  at  government  expense ! — " 


408  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

His  excellency  showed  real  consternation.  Calvci  t  knew  where 
the  difficulty  lay. 

"  Even  so,  your  excellency.  But  here  are  receipts  from  all  of 
them,  for  six  months'  pay,  the  term  for  which  they  are  engaged ; 
and  here,  too,  are  receipts,  all  in  your  name,  for  the  stores  of 
beef,  biscuit,  pork,  molasses,  rum,  potatoes,  and  other  commodi 
ties,  which  were  deemed  necessary  for  the  garrison  for  the  same 
term." 

The  governor  tool:  the  papers  in  silence.  He  was  confounded. 
The  rover  proceeded  : — 

"  You  will  establish  your  claim  against  the  colony  for  so  much 
advance  made  by  yourself.  You  will  permit  me  to  say  that  I 
have  no  claim  upon  you." 

"  By !  Captain  Calvert,  you  are  a  d d  generous  fel 
low  !  D d  generous,  by !" 

"  Say  no  more,  please !  I  am  compelled,  however,  to  say  that, 
as  soon  as  you  can  exchange  my  ship's  muskets,  pistols,  and  cut 
lasses,  for  those  of  the  colony,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  mine  back. 
These  belong  to  the  ship." 

"  I  shall  see  to  it.  I  will  send  the  despatch  in  a  fast  fly-boat, 
this  very  night,  to  my  Lord  Cardross." 

"  Better  this  very  hour." 

"  As  soon  as  you  leave  me." 

"  I  shall  leave  you  shortly  ;  have  very  little  more  to  say,  now : 
and  that  little  is,  unfortunately,  like  to  give  us  trouble  —  me,  at 
least.  Your  early  knowledge  of  the  facts  may  help  you  to  keep 
out  of  danger." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?"  demanded  the  governor,  eagerly, 
but  with  no  little  trepidation  in  his  tones.  He  felt  that  something 
serious  was  impending.  He  knew  Calvert  too  well  to  suppose 
him  guilty  of  a  jest ;  knew,  in  fact,  that  when  he  expressed  an  ap 
prehension,  it  was  generally  founded  upon  some  trouble  of  more 
than  common  difficulty. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  captain  ?" 

"  The  watch  on  my  ship  has  been  kept  badly,  during  my  ab- 
cence  from  it.  The  express-rider  —  Gideon  Fairchild  —  has  es- 
saped." 

"  The  devil !     Gone  ?  got  off?" 

"  It  would  seem  so.     He  escaped  last  night.     The  discovery 


COILS,    CARES,   AND   CLUES.  409 

was  only  made  to-day.     He  has  probably  had  eighteen  hours  to 
make  off." 

u  This  is  a  serious  matter." 

"  To  me,  perhaps  :  hardly  to  you.  I  shall  have  to  change  my 
anchorage-ground.  You  will  have  to  order  out  the  posse  comi- 
tatus,  and  create  a  special  police ;  nay,  despatch  an  armed  force 
in  search  after  the  vessel,  and  perhaps  put  the  town  under  mar 
tial  law.  It  will  require,  for  your  own  safety,  after  you  shall  be 
officially  apprized  of  the  intelligence  I  now  give  you,  to  show 
yourself  earnest  in  asserting  the  dignity  and  authority  of  govern 
ment.  You  will  hear  of  it  soon  enough.  You  must  show  your 
self  very  resolute  and  active." 

"  Where  the  devil's  the  fellow  Stillwater  [Sylvester]  ?  I  have 
not  seen  or  heard  of  him  for  a  week  or  more." 

"  He  is  not  in  town,  I  fancy." 

"  Where  the  devil  can  he  be  ?" 

"  Ask  rather  where  your  members  of  council  are,  for  I  suspect 
he  is  even  now  closeted  with  Morton  or  Middleton,  or  some  one 
or  more  of  them.  If  he  suspects  you — " 

"  Suspects  me  !     How  the  devil  should  he  suspect  me  ?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that  he  does.  But  the  thing  is  possible.  He  is 
cunning  enough.  He  may  think  you  to  be  lukewarm,  at  all 
events,  and  he  knoivs  some  of  the  council  to  be  otherwise.  You 
will  probably  hear  the  facts  through  your  council." 

"And  what's  to  be  done?"  demanded  his  excellency,  greatly 
chafed,  and  striding  his  chamber  with  seven-league  boots  of  anx 
iety. 

"  I  have  told  you.  Keep  cool ;  be  calm  !  It  will  be  sufficient 
that  you  have  due  notice.  You  must  not  be  taken  by  surprise. 
You  will  show  yourself  more  eager  in  pursuit  than  your  council. 
Go  with  them,  even  ahead  of  them,  in  all  the  plans  they  may 
propose,  for  my  capture  and  the  seizure  of  the  ship.  It  is  possi 
ble  that  they  will  not  attempt  this,  by  any  force  now  in  the  col 
ony.  It  is  probable  that  Morton,  who  was  on  the  Santee  a  week 
ago,  has  been  followed  thither  by  Sylvester ;  and  I  think  it  likely 
that,  without  consultation  with  you,  or  any  other  member  of  the 
council,  he  will  despatch  Fairchild  from  that  point  to  New  York, 
with  a  new  commission  to  bring  on  the  king's  ships.  I  must  pre 
pare  for  them.  See  that  you  prepare  for  Morton.  There  need 

18 


410  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

be  no  embarrassment  to  you,  now  that  you  are  prepared  to  know 
exactly  what  to  do.  You  will,  as  soon  as  the  facts  are  forced 
upon  you,  issue  your  proclamation,  and  make  public  the  reward 
offered  for  my  capture." 

"  By ,  Captain  Calvert,  but  you  take  it  with  a  d d  vir 
tuous  coolness !" 

"  Why  should  I  rage  ?  Why  tremble  ?  The  arrow  flies,  wheth  • 
er  we  weep  or  sing." 

"And  what  mean  you  to  do  with  yourself?" 

"  Ah  !  better,  as  I  have  so  frequently  said,  that  you  should 
know  as  little  as  possible.  I,  too,  am  forewarned." 

"  What !  suppose  I  issue  my  proclamation  to-morrow  ?" 

"You  will  do  no  such  thing,  unless  you  desire  to  ruin  yourself 
as  well  as  me.  Do  nothing,  as  I  said,  until  the  facts  are  so  forced 
upon  you  that  you  can  not  escape  them.  Issue  your  proclama 
tion  now,  and  when  Morton,  Middleton,  and  Berkeley,  ask  whence 
you  get  your  information,  what  will  you  answer?  '  From  Calvert 
himself,'  eh  ?" 

"  True,  true  !     But  it's  a  devil  of  a  predicament !" 

"  Pshaw !  nothing,  governor,  so  long  as  we  know  where  the 
snares  lie,  and  walk  like  bearded  men  with  our  eyes  open,  and 
our  wits,  like  keen-nosed  hounds,  running  before  us.  Be  cool, 
sir,  and  wait  events,  and  do  not  force  them." 

"  Where  go  you  now  ?" 

"Into  cover,  as  soon  as  possible,  as  the  fox  does  when  she 
knows  the  hounds  are  abroad.  I  must  relieve  you  of  all  respon 
sibility,  all  doubts  of  my  safety,  so  that  you  may  act  with  the 
most  prompt  decision,  at  the  requisition  of  your  council.  Be  so 
good  as  to  send  the  fly-boat  to  my  Lord  Cardross  to-night.  They 
must  use  sail  and  oar,  as  they  can  ;  but  make  rapid  headway.  As 
for  these  Indians — " 

"  D — n  'em  !  If  your  suspicions  be  true,  that  is  another  trou 
ble  !" 

"  One  trouble  is  apt  to  devour  another  !  Considered  selfishly, 
an  outbreak  of  the  red  men  now,  should  be  subject  of  congratula 
tion.  It  will  divert  your  people  and  council  from  your  piratical 
friends :  it  will  giAre  you  and  me  respite." 

"Egad!  that's  likely  enough.  And,  by-the-way,  an  Indian 
war  will  reopen  a  branch  of  business  which  my  virtuous  brethren 


COILS,    CARKS,    AND    CLUES.  411 

in  council  have  been  busy  in  shutting  up.  It  will  give  us  cap 
tives  for  the  West-India  markets.  "We  must  follow  the  example 
of  our  New-England  crop-ears,  and  buy  the  scalps  of  the  warriors, 
and  sell  the  souls  of  their  women  and  children  —  bodies,  rather ; 
the  souls  would  n't  bring  a  stiver  in  any  good  Christian  market !" 

Our  rover  left  our  governor  to  as  many  sources  of  consolation 
as  his  own  soul  could  suggest.  We  shall  follow  his  example ;  but 
not  before  we  have  seen  his  excellency  preparing  his  despatches, 
apprizing  Lord  Cardross  of  the  possible  danger  from  red  men  and 
Spaniards. 


412  THE   CASSIQUE    OF  K1AWAH. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

A   NIGHT    OF    ADVENTURES. 

"  Go  to,  and  follow  :— 

We  skip  from  one  to  t'  other  here, 
And  note  their  several  fortunes." 

FROM  the  stately  dwelling  of  the  governor,  our  rover  hastened 
to  the  lowly  one  of  the  ancient  Jack-tar  Franks,  in  "  Boggy  Quar 
ter."  His  route  was  an  obscure  one,  by  Fiddler's  Green,  Cow- 
alley,  and  Myrtle  cove  —  places  no  longer  known  to  modern  no 
menclature  in  the  same  precinct  —  until  he  found  himself  safe  in 
the  obscurities  of  "  Boggy  Quarter."  Here  he  obtained  a  mask, 
and  such  change  of  costume  as  he  desired  to  make,  should  he  think 
proper  to  peril  his  person  at  the  fancy  ball  of  Mrs.  Perkins  An 
derson. 

Old  Franks  had  a  "curiosity  shop"  of  his  own — how  collected^ 
we  may  conjecture,  but  are  not  able  to  say  —  and  could,  at  a 
pinch,  have  fitted  out  a  score  of  masqueraders  in  their  fancy 
dresses. 

But  Harry  Calvert,  while  he  twiddled  the  domino  in  his  fingers, 
did  not  seem  eager  to  habit  himself  for  the  evening.  He  gave 
himself  up  to  a  sombre  fit  of  meditation,  seeing  which,  old  Franks, 
with  genuine  sailor  instinct,  proceeded  to  get  out  the  rum,  and 
sugar,  and  lemon-juice,  and  quietly  concoct  a  bowl  of  punch.  He 
knew  the  virtues  of  punch  in  vexatious  moods.  He  also  knew 
that,  though  our  rover  was  anything  but  a  swiller  of  liquor,  yet, 
when  in  such  a  mood,  he  had  only  to  place  a  can  of  the  beverage 
beside  his  captain,  and  it  would  be  swallowed  unconsciously. 
Were  he  to  offer  to  prepare  it,  as  dull  dogs  are  apt  to  do,  Calvert 
would  no  doubt  refuse.  The  only  proper  way,  as  old  experience  and 


A   NIGHT   OF   ADVENTURES.  413 

a  gentlemanly  tact  had  taught  him,  was  the  process  already  adopted. 
And,  having  such  a  profound  faith  in  punch,  in  all  similar  cases 
of  head  and  heart,  Franks  held  himself  justified  in  beguiling  his 
superior  to  his  medicine.  His  moral  in  the  business  was  such  as 
any  honest  temperance  society  will  approve. 

But,  though  Calvert  drank,  he  grew  moodier  than  ever.  At 
length,  Franks  went  forth  and  left  him  alone.  Anon  he  returned 
and  made  his  report. 

Lieutenant  Molyneaux  and  the  old  pirate,  Sam  Fowler,  had 
reached  town  in  their  boat. 

"  Well,"  said  the  rover,  not  turning  his  head,  "  does  Belcher 
know  ?" 

"  'T  was  he  told  me,  yer  honor." 

"  Ah  !  well !  —  he  knows  what  to  do." 

And  he  relapsed  again  into  his  meditations. 

Leaving  him  to  these,  let  us  pick  up  and  unwind  some  of  the 
clues  which  we  have,  hitherto,  rather  laid  aside  than  dropped. 

First,  then,  the  mode  of  Fairchild's  escape  from  the  Happy-go 
Lucky  ? 

The  mulattress  was,  in  truth,  the  agent.  She  had  pretty  much 
the  freedom  of  the  ship.  As  the  maid  of  Zulieme,  a  great  many 
privileges  had  been  accorded  her.  As  the  spy  and  agent  of  Lieu 
tenant  Molyneaux,  she  had  succeeded  to  a  good  many  more. 
Eccles,  the  second  lieutenant,  though  really  an  honest  and  good 
fellow,  belonged  to  the  numerous  family  of  the  "  softs."  He  was 
bashful  in  office ;  and  while  Molyneaux  was  present,  in  authority, 
Eccles  never  adequately  asserted  his  own. 

Molyneaux  had  temporarily  forgotten  his  interest  in  Sylvia,  in 
that  more  absorbing  interest  which  followed  from  his  intrigues 
with  Fowler.  Sylvia,  while  slighted  by  Molyneaux,  had  still  the 
freedom  of  the  ship. 

The  mulatto  is  the  cross  of  white  upon  negro  blood.  The  male 
mulatto  has  a  share  of  the  quickness  of  the  white  man,  with  little 
of  his  solidity  or  grasp.  He  has  the  cunning  of  the  negro,  with 
out  his  loyalty,  or  strength,  or  even  courage. 

The  female  mulatto  has,  in  excess,  all  the  arts  of  the  male,  with 
a  proportionate  increase  of  that  dexterity  and  cunning  which  nat 
urally  belong  to  the  sex.  She  is  fond  of  toys,  capricious  of  mood, 
restless  of  place,  eager  for  change,  greedy  for  show  and  vanity 


414  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

and  vindictive  in  her  passion.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  crea 
ture  where  the  cross  is  that  of  Spaniard  or  Portuguese.  If  the 
father  be  French,  there  will  be  equal  caprice  but  greater  playful 
ness.  The  Spanish  mulattress  will  be  a  shade  more  religious. 
The  cross  with  the  English  gives  a  more  solid  character,  capable 
of  greater  thought  and  work.  If  Scotch,  there  will  be  a  certain 
character  of  moodiness  and  sullenness,  with  a  like  capacity  for 
work,  and  a  greater  degree  of  endurance.  Descendants  of  the 
Irish  cross  are  apt  to  approach  those  of  the  French  in  character. 
Sylvia  was  the  daughter  of  a  white  Spaniard. 

She  had  vanity  and  religion,  appetite  and  frivolity,  superstition 
and  passion,  all  huddled  up  together,  in  her  composition.  She 
was  a  fool,  of  course ;  but  not  the  less  dangerous  because  a  fool. 
Molyneaux  had  slighted  her.  He  had  promised  to  convey  her  to 
town,  for  which  she  sighed  quite  as  much  as  her  mistress.  He 
gave  her  the  freedom  of  the  ship,  but  so  watched,  that  she  could 
not  get  away  from  it.  He  found  that  she  could  only  profit  him, 
in  his  proposed  intrigue  with  her  mistress,  while  with  her ;  and, 
separate  from  her,  she  was  good  for  nothing,  and  could  do  noth 
ing.  Finding  the  vessel  empty,  he  simply  left  it  on  the  shelf. 

And  Sylvia  resented  this,  after  vainly  seeking  to  regain  her  as 
cendency.  He  gave  her  no  credit  for  her  amulets.  She  might 
have  been  pacified,  if  he  had  recognised  her  charms.  But  the 
mulattress  was  no  beauty.  And  so,  with  the  sense  of  neglect,  she 
grew  mischievous.  She  had,  among  other  petty  passions,  a  most 
terrible  curiosity.  There  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hold,  brought  in 
under  mysterious  circumstances.  She  found  her  way  to  him. 

Gideon  Fairchild  was  a  straight-laced  Puritan ;  a  rogu^  by  in 
stinct,  but  a  saint  by  profession.  He  succeeded  in  persuading 
Sylvia  to  undo  his  fetters.  He  promised  to  take  her  to  town,  to 
her  mistress ;  the  very  thing  she  most  sighed  for  at  that  moment, 
How  he  proceeded  —  by  what  oily  words  and  phrases,  by  what 
asseverations  —  we  need  not  say.  But  it  will  not  surprise  you 
to  hear  that,  in  the  darkness  of  the  hold,  Gideon  did  not  scruple 
to  promise  marriage  to  the  mulattress.  He  had  one  wife  already 
in  Charleston  ;'  and  there  had  been  a  scandal,  which  insisted  that 
he  had  left  another  in  Connecticut.  But  the  latter  never  looked 
him  up  in  Carolina,  no  doubt  for  very  good  reasons ;  and  to  the 
former  he  may  have  meditated  no  wrong  in  his  promise  to  the 


A    NIGHT   OF   ADVENTURES.  415 

mulattress.  It  was  probably  the  only  argument  by  which  to  per 
suade  her  to  undo  his  bonds ;  and  some  little  latitude  must  be  ac 
corded  to  a  Puritan  in  durance  vile. 

Well,  they  escaped  together ;  and  even  at  his  departure  from 
the  ship,  Molyneaux  was  ignorant  of  the  fact.  Eccles,  indeed, 
knew  it,  but  did  not  trouble  his  senior  officer  with  the  intelligence. 
Nor,  in  fact,  had  he  the  chance :  all  that  day,  Molyneaux  had 
been  busied  in  adjusting  his  costume  for  the  night.  He  had  a 
wondrous  wardrobe.  Costumes  of  English  cavalier,  French  mar 
quis,  Spanish  don,  Italian  bandit,  and  (no  less  picturesque)  gallant 
rover :  black  hat,  like  steeple ;  diamond  button ;  great,  black  plu 
mage  of  the  ostrich :  rich  frock,  heavy  with  lace ;  belt,  studded 
with  jewels ;  slings,  for  a  brace  of  silver-mounted  pistols ;  sling, 
for  long,  glittering  cut-and-thrust ;  diamond  buckles  for  the  knee ; 
silken  stockings,  elaborately  clocked ;  and  peaked  shoes,  glossy 
with  varnish,  and  gleaming  with  their  buckles  also. 

What  shall  he  wear?  The  question  is  one  of  proverbial  diffi 
culty  to  an  English  macaroni,  especially  when  the  object  is  a  fancy 
ball.  Molyneaux  labors  under  an  embarras  des  riche.sse.  It  takes 
him  a  whole  day  to  determine ;  and,  though  he  decides  before 
nightfall,  he  is  still  dubious.  He  decides  to  be  a  courtier  of 
Charles  II. ;  but,  lest  his  tastes  should  change  ere  he  reaches 
town,  he  concludes  to  carry  with  him  an  Italian  brigand,  a  Span 
ish  don,  and  a  French  marquis.  Anyhow,  he  will  wear  an  aigrette 
of  pearl,  and  a  great  rope  about  his  neck,  of  the  same  precious 
tears,  from  the  sea  of  Oman,  or  the  less  classical  shores  of  the 
Pacific. 

Sam  Fowler,  "Squint-eyed  Sam,"  the  old  pirate,  begrudges 
boat-room  to  the  chest  which  is  required  for  these  precious  fan- 
tasticals ;  for  Sam's  taste  is  more  of  the  butcher  than  the  tailor 
order.  But  Molyneaux  makes  a  point  of  it,  and  such  a  comrade 
is  not  to  be  quarrelled  with  in  a  mere  matter  of  taste.  And  so 
they  leave  together  the  snug  nook  upon  the  Ashley,  and  make 
their  way  to  "  Oyster  Point"  —  a  name  which,  among  the  vulgar, 
clung  to  the  good  city  of  the  cavaliers  a  long  time  after.  She 
had  been  formally  christened  "  CHARLESTON,"  after  the  "  merrie 
monarch. 

They  reached  their  destination,  a  creek  which  put  in  somewhere 
between  the  present  streets  Queen  and  Wentworth,  in  the  very 


416  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

heart  of  the  modern  city,  and  possibly  an  eighth  of  a  mile  above 
that  which  usually  afforded  shelter  to  the  skiff  of  Captain  Caivert. 
And  here,  on  a  little  bank  of  sand,  over  which  hung  a  single  live 
oak,  skirted  by  a  fringe  of  myrtle  and  sea-willows,  the  gallant  Mr. 
Molyneaux  made  his  toilet,  rigging  himself  out  as  a  cavalier  of 
the  English  court. 

He  was  now  ready  for  the  masking.  But  he  had  still  to  find 
his  way  to  the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  For  the  ne 
cessary  knowledge  he  could  only  look  to  Sam  Fowler ;  and  the 
latter,  in  turn,  must  refer  to  his  trading-acquaintance,  Mr.  Ebene- 
zer  Sproulls. 

As  both  of  our  parties  were  eager  after  their  several  affairs 
—  for  if  Molyneaux  looked  to  the  costume-ball  for  his  delights, 
Fowler  had  visions  of  a  famous  drinking-'bout,  with  choice  com 
panions,  running  in  his  head  —  they  very  soon  left  the  boat  in  the 
keeping  of  the  two  sailors  who  had  rowed  them  down.  These 
sailors,  by-the-way,  were  among  their  confederates,  sworn  brothers 
under  the  "  Jolly  Roger."  Fowler  gave  them  stern  counsel  to 
keep  the  boat,  lie  close  under  the  willows,  and  obey  their  signal. 

"  If  you  try  to  git  into  town,  my  lads,  they  '11  have  you  in  the 
bilboes;  and  then,  be  sure,  you'll  die  in  your  shoes,  and  that  too 
with  no  solid  deck  to  stand  upon." 

"  They  've  no  liquors  ?"  asked  Molyneaux. 

"  Not  a  drap,  yer  honors !"  And  the  two  rascals  grinned  as 
they  answered  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Well,  eyes  bright,  my  lads,  and  lie  close,  with  a  good  gripe  of 
pistols  as  well  as  oars.  Remember,  the  three  whistles  and  a 
chirrup !" 

And  so  they  were  left  to  the  consolations  of  a  dry  time  on  a  lee 
shore.  The  reckless  rascals,  however,  had  made  provision  for 
themselves ;  and,  hardly  had  their  two  superiors  gone  from  sight, 
ere  they  produced  a  portly  jug  of  Jamaica,  and  proceeded  to 
refresh  themselves.  Their  providence,  and  the  frequency  and 
strength  of  their  draughts,  rendered  the  work  of  Jack  Belcher 
much  easier  than  it  otherwise  might  have  been.  In  one  hour 
after  they  had  begun  their  potations,  they  were  only  half  con 
scious,  and  nowise  capable  of  using  oar  or  pistol ;  and  in  this  con 
dition  were  set  upon  by  half  a  dozen  sturdy  fellows,  who  had  them 
roped  and  gagged  in  a  jiffy,  stripped  of  every  weapon,  and  car 


A    NIGHT   OF   ADVENTURES.  417 

ried  off  to  a  closer  harborage.  Their  places  in  the.;  boat  were  sup 
plied  by  two  others,  who  were  soon  habited  in  their  garments,  and 
better  able  to  perform  their  duties. 

Meanwhile,  Molyneaux  and  Fowler  made  their  way  to  the  hab 
itation  of  Sproulls.  A  Spanish  roquelaure,  of  great  dimensions, 
though  light  cf  weight,  sufficed  to  conceal  the  gayety  of  our  lieu 
tenant's  costume  from  all  vulgar  eyes.  But  they  met  few  persons 
in  the  infant  city,  and  no  policemen.  Not  that  the  town  was  lack 
ing  in  its  Dogberries.  But  the  mere  corporal's  guard,  then  kept 
on  the  establishment,  did  not  suffice  for  more  than  angel-visits  to 
the  several  streets. 

Our  lieutenant  found  the  thoroughfares  muddy.  There  were 
pools  to  cross,  and  qwagmires  to  leap,  and  ditches  which  were 
more  easy  to  penetrate  than  to  pass ;  and  Sam  Fowler  was  some 
thing  of  a  blind  guide.  But  all  difficulties  were  finally  overcome, 
and  the  two  reached  Sproulls's  dwelling  in  safety,  though  it  was 
found  that  the  shoes  of  our  lieutenant  needed  nice  treatment  and 
a  considerate  brush.  And  Sproulls  himself  condescended  to  this 
labor.  He  was,  or  affected  to  be,  full  of  admiration  at  the  cos 
tume  of  his  visiter ;  and  no  doubt  he  was.  Besides,  Molyneaux 
was  a  very  pretty  fellow,  with  a  good  leg,  and  a  well-built  and 
graceful  figure.  He  prided  himself  with  propriety  upon  his  leg. 
Sproulls  was  no  doubt  moved  to  admiration,  in  some  degree,  be 
cause  of  the  notion  he  had  taken  that  the  famous  rover,  Calvert 
himself,  stood  before  him.  Fowler  had  not  named  his  companion. 
Molyneaux  kept  on  his  vizard,  and  Sproulls  himself  had  never 
seen  Calvert.  He  conjectured  and  concluded  just  as  he  wished. 
Here  let  us  leave  the  parties  for  awhile,  until  it  becomes  proper 
to  take  the  principal  to  the  assembly  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson. 

It  is  not  known  exactly  at  what  hour,  and  by  what  particular 
mode,  Gideon  Fairchild  and  Sylvia  succeeded  in  leaving  the 
Happy-go-Lucky.  But  we  do  know  that  their  escape  was  made, 
in  the  first  instance,  to  the  woods  on  the  western  side  of  the  river. 
Here  they  immediately  buried  themselves  in  the  thickets,  hurry 
ing  below  with  the  flight  of  fear.  Two  miles  below,  they  discov 
ered  an  old  canoe  fastened  to  a  tree  in  the  water  by  a  grapevine. 
It  was  leaky,  and  seemed  to  have  been  abandoned  as  unseawor- 
thy.  A  broken  paddle  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  But  this* 
with  a  stream  so  narrow  at  this  point,  and  so  smooth,  was  suffi- 

18* 


418  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

cient  for  their  purposes.  They  did  not  stop  to  bail  the  rickety 
vessel,  but  boldly  ventured  in  and  paddled  across ;  their  appre 
hensions  increasing  during  the  voyage  lest  the  canoe  should  sink, 
for  the  water  gurgled  in  from  numerous  seams  and  cracks.  But 
they  succeeded  in  getting  her  into  a  creek  running  through  the 
opposite  marsh,  and  landed  safely  at  a  point  which  tradition  still 
indicates  as  near  the  eastern  bank  of  the  "  Ten-mile  Ferry."  But 
it  must  have  been  above  this  point,  since,  according  to  the  "  claim" 
put  in  by  Gideon  Fairchild  for  "  damages" — which  may  perhaps 
still  be  found  in  the  records  of  the  colonial  office  —  he  mentioned 
his  dreary  midnight  tramp  of  fourteen  miles  to  the  city  after  he 
had  crossed  the  river.  But  the  matter  is  not  of  serious  moment. 
The  fugitives  crossed  in  safety,  and  succeeded  in  making  their 
way  to  the  main  thoroughfare  of  the  country  —  a  noble  avenue 
girdled  on  both  sides  by  mighty  live  oaks,  hung  with  moss,  and 
gigantic  pines,  the  most  stately  of  all  evergreens,  the  growth  of 
half  a  century  or  more,  which  literally  linked  their  branches 
across  the  track,  forming  a  grand  Gothic  archway  of  many,  many 
miles  in  length.  Old  John  Archdale,  the  Quaker  governor  for  a 
season,  and  one  of  the  lords -proprietors,  said  of  this  avenue  many 
years  after,  that  it  was  such  as  no  prince  in  Europe  could  boast. 
And  for  a  good  reason  :  it  was  cut  out  of  the  primitive  forests, 
which  the  axe  of  civilization  had  never  dishonored  by  a  stroke ! 

It  was  hard  work  for  our  fugitives,  in  the  thick  woods  and 
thicker  darkness,  to  make  their  way  from  the  river  to  the  open 
road.  Gideon,  who  pretended  to  some  merits  as  a  scout,  but  was 
at  best  nothing  but  an  express,  was  frequently  puzzled  and  in 
despair.  But  Sylvia  kept  beside  him,  cheerful  through  all,  and 
sometimes  helping  him  forward  by  a  hint,  often  by  a  word  of  en 
couragement.  Her  exercises  as  vaulter,  tumbler,  and  dancer,  had 
admirably  prepared  her  lower  limbs  for  any  ordeal  on  foot ;  and 
she  ran  beside  Gideon  without  effort,  as  he  stumbled  and  fought 
his  way  through  the  thicket,  his  Puritan  restraints  frequently  so 
far  forgotten  as  to  allow  of  sundry  explosive  expletives,  such  as 
«  Odds  blood  !"  "  Odds  flesh  !"  «  Odds  zounds  !"  and  «  Odds  bodi- 
kins !"  —  all  ?o  many  contractions  of  the  Sacred  Name,  modifica 
tions  of  well-known  English  oaths  of  the  days  of  "  good  Queen 
Bess." 

"  You  're  swearing,  ain't  you  ?"  demanded  the  gipsy ;  "  what  for  V 


A   NIGHT   OF   ADVENTURES.  419 

"  These  'tarnal  thick  woods  I" 

"  What !  do  you  mind  the  woods  ?     I  can  see  like  an  owl." 

"  Well,  I  wish  I  could  light  mv  eyes  by  your  lamp.  I  'm  tar 
nation  'fear'd  we  shall  never  git  out  of  this  thick." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  will !  I  can  get  through  !  You  ought  n't  to  miri 
that,  since  your  're  out  of  the  hold  of  that  nasty  old  ship." 

"  S'blood  !  but  'twas  nasty  !  I  shall  never  forgit,  ef  I  live  till 
Methuselah.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  git  the  smell  of  the  tar 
out  of  my  nose." 

"  Well,  you're  out  now,  and  that's  something.  It's  better  here, 
and  free  to  go,  than  stay  there  without  any  daylight." 

"  Odds  Bob  !  but  what's  the  freedom  here,  I  wonder?  There, 
now  !  I  had  it  right  slap  in  my  face!  Sich  a  wipe!  —  a  blasted 
big  airm  of  the  tree !" 

Sylvia  laughed  merrily  as  her  companion,  growling  the  while, 
extricated  himself  for  ^he  moment,  but  only  to  run  into  a  new 
mesh  of  entanglement. 

"  Here,  hold  my  hand,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  '11  show  you  the  way." 

But  his  pride  wouldn't  suffer  this  ;  and  when  she  laughed  again, 
he  growled,  fiercely — 

"  What  the  dickens  do  you  yell  for  !  Don't  you  know  there's 
wolves  and  tigers  all  about  these  woods  ?" 

" Madre  de  Dios!  is  it  true?"     And  the  gipsy  nestled  closer. 

"  True !  why,  you  can  hear  them  sometimes  a-barkin'  in  the 
streets  of  Charlestoun." 

"Jesu  !  holy  Mother  !  but  is  it  true  ?" 

"  True !  —  Ah  !  the  Lord  be  praised,  we  're  in  the  road  at 
last !" 

And  the  two  looked  up,  and  saw  the  stars  shining  out  fairlj 
through  the  avenue. 

"  Yes  !  we  're  in  a  cl'ar  track  now,  and  that 's  a  God's  mercy/* 

"  But  the  wolves  and  tigers,  Mr.  Gideon  !" 

"Yes!  don't  you  wake  'em  up  with  your  infarnal  yells  a£,  «•* 
You  don't  know  how  soon  they'll  be  on  us  anyhow.  Sti  t»  to 
me." 

"  I  will !" 

"And  there's  the  red,  painted,  devilish  sons  of  S?.tJ/  —  thf 
Injins !" 

"O  Jesu!  and  have  you  the  red  Injins  so  near  the  t«vn?" 


420  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAfl. 

"  Near  the  town  !     We  've  got  a  good  ten  miles  to  go  ye*  j 
we  may  both  lose  our  sculps  before  we  git  a  mile  further." 

"  But  they  would  n't  sculp  a  woman,  would  they  ?" 

"  Would  n't  they  ?  Why,  why  not  ?  What  would  they  want 
her  for?" 

"  Why,  they  'd  want  her  to  go  with  one  of  the  warriors ;  they  'd 
eome  of  them  be  wanting  to  marry  her." 

"  And  so  you  think  you  'd  git  off  that  way,  while  they  was  a- 
eculpin'  me,  do  ye  ?" 

"  No  !  but  that  would  be  the  worst  of  it  for  a  woman." 

"  And  you  'd  marry  an  Injin,  would  ye  ?" 

"  And  why  not  ?  He 's  got  a  good  color,  jest  like  mine.  But, 
you  know,  I  'm  to  marry  you,  Mr.  Gideon." 

"  Hem !  marry  me  ?  Wai,  I  guess  we  did  say  something 
about  it,  when  I  was  onable  to  make  a  contract.  Do  you  recol 
lect  anything  of  sich  talk  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  I  do  !  You  are  to  carry  me  to  my  missus,  you 
know,  and  if  she  says  l  Yes,'  why,  you  're  to  marry  me." 

"I'm  afear'd,  my  poor  gal,  that  your  mistress  won't  say  '  Yes."' 

"Oh,  but  she  will!" 

"  I  guess  not.  You  &ee,  I  Ve  been  a-thinkin'  about  it,  Sylvia ; 
and,  you  see,  you  're  a  slave." 

"  Oh  !  you'll  pay  missus  so  much  money,  you  know." 

"  And  whar  's  it  to  come  from,  I  say  ?" 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  you  ought  to  know." 

"  But  I  don't  know.  And  I  reckon,  my  poor  gal,  you'll  have 
to  give  up  any  sich  onreasonable  ixpectations." 

"  But  why  ?" 

"  For  the  reasons  I  tell  you,  and  for  other  reasons  that  I  won't 
tell  you." 

The  gipsy  began  to  whine  and  blubber.  But  just  then,  Gid 
eon: — 

"Hairk!  what's  that  in  the  thick?  Shet  up  your  oven,  gal, 
and  do  n't  bring  out  all  the  painted  savages  'twixt  here  and  hell 
to  eat  us  up !  Shet  up,  I  say,  and  push  on,  now  the  track 's  clear. 
It'll  be  broad  daylight  afore  we  git  to  town,  ef  you  don't  walk 
faster." 

The  word  "  savages"  sufficed.     Sylvia  darted  forward  at  a  run. 

"  Why,  you  'tarnal !  would  you  jest  now  surrender  me  up 


A   NIGHT   OF  ADVENTURES.  421 

to  the  painted  varmints,  and  leave  me  to  be  sculped  intire  ?  la 
that  the  way  you  shows  your  gratitude,  now  that  I've  extercated 
you  out  of  that  pirate  prison  ?" 

Gideon  had  completely  changed  the  relative  obligations  of  the 
parties.  In  due  degree  as  he  began  to  feel  himself  secure,  did 
the  sense  of  gratitude  decline  within  him.  We  have  seen  how 
decidedly  he  ignored  his  promise  of  marriage.  It  was  necessary 
that  he  should  do  this  effectually  before  he  reached  the  presence 
of  the  Mrs.  Gideon  of  Charleston.  But,  even  as  he  felt  the  ne 
cessity  of  silencing  the  one  idea,  another  entered  his  head.  He 
was  not  altogether  prepared  to  give  Sylvia  up  to  her  mistress. 
She  was  a  slave  to  the  Spaniard.  Why  not  to  him  ?  It  the  ab 
stract,  he  was  decidedly  opposed  to  negro  slavery ;  but  there  is, 
as  every  virtuous  Christian  knows  and  understands,  a  very  sub 
stantial  difference  between  a  slave  to  keep  and  a  slave  to  sell ! 
Now,  it  was  very  certain  that  Mrs.  Gideon  would  never  suffer 
him  to  keep  Sylvia;  but  he  was  quite  as  sure  that  that  excellent 
woman  would  never  object  to  selling  her,  at  a  proper  market  val 
uation.  Sylvia  would  bring,  even  in  that  day,  as  an  accomplished 
lady's  maid,  some  fifty  pounds  under  the  hammer.  Now,  if  Syl 
via,  reconciled  to  the  denial  of  her  claims,  as  wife,  could  be  per 
suaded  of  the  superior  advantages  to  herself  of  becoming,  for  a 
season,  lady's  maid  to  Mrs.  Gideon,  the  next  step  was  easy.  Once 
recognised,  though  for  the  briefest  possible  period,  as  the  servant 
of  Gideon,  the  presumption  of  ownership  would  be  sufficient.  As 
for  the  rival  claims  of  Zulieme  Calvert,  Gideon  knew  enough  to 
satisfy  him  that  he  could  dispose  of  them  by  a  very  easy  process. 
He  had  not  been  slow  to  extract  from  the  prattling  Sylvia  the 
evidence  that  he  desired  in  respect  to  our  rover,  the  Senorita  de 
Montano,  and  the  good  ship,  the  Happy-go-Lucky.  Sylvia  had 
left  herself  few  secrets. 

With  these  cunning  thoughts  running  in  his  head,  and  which 
matured  with  great  rapidity  in  a  brain  that  cupidity  had  sharp 
ened  as  a  cut-and-thrust,  Gideon,  when  about  half  way  from  town^ 
concluded  to  call  a  rest. 

"Let's  set  awhile,  Sylvia,  my  gal;  let's  set,  and  rest.  We've 
done  the  worst  half  of  our  work,  and  the  rest's  pretty  easy.  A 
leetle  rest,  now,  will  be  good  for  both." 

"  Where  shall  we  set  ?     I  'm  tired." 


422  THE   CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

"  So  am  I.  Here 's  a  log,  now,  jest  convenient  to  the  roadside. 
I  '11  jest  pok  3  it  first,  to  scare  off  the  snakes,  ef  there  be  any. 
Thar !  set  you  down,  gal." 

And  the  two  sat,  cheek  by  jowl.  Then  Gideon,  putting  his 
hand  good-naturedly  on  Sylvia's  shoulder,  began : — 

"  I  Ve  helped  you  out  of  the  hands  of  them  heathen  pirates — " 

"  But  they  ain't  no  pirates,  I  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  gal,  they  air,  though  you  kain  't  understand." 

"Yes,  lean;  and  I  know  they  ain't  no  pirates.  They're  a 
rough,  nasty  set,  and  she 's  a  nasty  little  ship,  and  that 's  true ; 
but  they  ain't  no  pirates,  Mr.  Gideon." 

"  Wai,  do  n't  matter ;  they  're  nasty,  and  I  've  helped  you  out 
of  their  hobbles." 

"You!  I  was  a-thinkin'  'twas  I  helped  you.  I  could  git 
away  at  any  time." 

"  En  why  did  n't  you,  I  wonder  ?" 

"'Cause  I  had  nobody  to  ax  me  to  be  married,  before  you 
come." 

"  Ahem !  you  still  talks  about  that,  Sylvia,  as  ef  you  had  a  sort 
of  right.  But  I  guess  I  made  it  cl'ar  to  you  that  sich  a  thing  was 
all  foolishness." 

"  But  you  said  it." 

"A  man  what's  in  a  donjin,  or  is  a-drownin',  ain't  answerable 
for  what  he  says !  That 's  the  law,  Sylvia,  and  it 's  sense !  So, 
jest  you  shet  up  about  the  marriage.  Marriage,  'twixt  us,  is  only 
so  much  nonsense.  It  kain't  be." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Bekaise,  you  see,  I  've  got  a  Mrs.  Gid  a'ready,  and  the  law 
won't  let  me  have  tew  Mrs.  Gids  ;  and,  what 's  more,  I  do  n't  want 
'em.  Lord  save  us  from  sich  a  happiness  !  Next,  you  see,  you  're 
a  nigger — " 

"  Nigger !"  starting  up.     "  No  more  nigger  than  you,  sah  !" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Sylvia,  you  've  got  the  blood,  and  I  aint !  My 
blood  's  the  nateral,  white,  pure  blood  of '  the  pilgrims,'  that  come 
out  of  the  Mayflower  —  genooyne  Saxon,  without  a  cross.  The 
family  of  Fairchild  was  about  the  first  that  ever  planted  a  foot  on 
the  Plymouth  rock,  and  't  was  a  foot  in  a  shoe,  my  gal ;  for,  you 
see,  old  Gid,  my  great,  great,  great,  granther,  was  a  shoemaker, 
and  it  stands  to  reason  he  always  took  care  to  have  a  good  pair 


A   NIGHT   OP   ADVENTURES.  423 

of  shoes  for  himself.  The  blood's  the  best,  I  tell  you,  in  all 
Plymouth,  and  Massachusetts  bay  to  boot ;  and  't  wont  do  to  cross 
it  with  nigger  blood,  unless  for  a  good  consideration.  Now,  I've 
hearn  of  some  of  your  Spaniards  that  had  a  cross  of  black,  or 
white,  or  mestizo ;  but  they  had,  same  time,  a  smart  chance  of 
nigger-property  and  lands.  Ef  so  be  you  was  one  of  them  sort, 
now — " 

"  Yer'  you,  Mr.  Gideon,  I  'm  no  nigger.  I  Ve  got  white  blood 
—  a  leetle  yellowish,  that 's  all ;  and  ef  you  thinks  your  'n  is  so 
much  better,  look  yer,  git  yourself  out  of  prisoned  next  time  for 
yourself !  See  what  your  white  blood 's  guine  to  do,  to  open 
them  iron  rings  you  had  about  your  legs  and  arms !  You  ain't 
forgot  that,  I  reckon." 

"  Guess  not !  Wai,  you  see,  I  held  up  the  darbies,  and  you 
found  the  key,  and,  between  us,  I  worked  out !  That  was  all  you 
did.  I  paddled  you  over  the  river,  and  showed  you  the  way 
here—" 

"You  !"  and  the  gipsy  laughed  merrily  at  the  absurdity.  She 
had  not  seen  so  much  absurdity  in  his  mode  of  presenting  the 
manner  of  his  escape  from  the  darbies  —  he  holding  up  the  man 
acles,  and  she  finding  and  using  the  key ;  but,  remembering  his 
troubles  in  the  woods,  his  claims  as  a  guide  seemed  to  her  super 
latively  ridiculous. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  I  've  showed  you  what  we  Ve  done  for  one 
another;  and  I  reckon  we're  about  square.  As  for  a  wife,  that, 
you  see,  is  the  onpossible  thing;  it's  like  the  onpardonable  sin  of 
scripter.  You  see,  thar 's  a  Madam  Gid  a'ready,  and  she'd  tear 
all  to  pieces  before  she  'd  hear  of  it ;  and,  what's  more,  she  'd  have 
you  sent  back,  tied  neck  and  heels,  to  this  pirate-vessel." 

"Oh,  don't  say  so!" 

"  She  'd  do  it,  by  all  that 's  bloody,  or  she  'd  make  everything 
crack  ag'in !" 

"  O  Mr.  Gideon,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Wai !  to  do  you  a  sarvice,  for  the  leetle  that  you  did  for  me, 
you  must  mind  your  eyes,  and  some  few  things  I  Ve  got  to  tell 
you.  First,  you  '11  have  to  clap  a  stopper  on  your  jaws,  and  never 
let  out  about  our  gittin'  out  of  that  ship,  or  what  you  did,  and  what 
I  might  happen  to  say  to  you  in  my  weakness  of  heart  and  tribu 
lations  of  sperit,  when  them  cussed  iron  clamps  was  upon  me." 


424  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  're  not  to  say  a  word  about  husband  and  wife,  you 
hear?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  And  you  're  to  go  to  my  house  ;  and  my  wife,  Mrs.  Gideon  — 
a  most  sweet,  sainted  vessel  of  the  sperit  —  she  '11  be  your  missus 
instead  of  that  painted  harlot,  what  do  you  call  her  ? — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  scream  —  a  shriek  —  a  yell  of  disgust 
and  indignation.  And  the  next  moment  the  girl  was  on  her  feet, 
and  darting  forward  down  the  road  like  mad. 

"  Odds  'ounds !  Where  are  you  goin',  and  at  that  mad  rate, 
gal?" 

"  You  're  a  brute  —  a  great  British  brute  —  that  you  are  I" 

"  But  where  are  you  goin',  gal  ?" 

"  To  town  —  to  my  missus.  I  '11  not  have  any  missus  of 
your'n." 

"  But  the  wolves  -—  the  tigers !" 

"You 're  a  wolf  and  a  tiger  yourself!    I  won't  stay  with  you." 

"  But  you  must.  How  would  you  git  on  in  town,  ef  't  want  for 
me  ?  You  'd  never  find  your  way." 

"  The  road 's  a  big  one." 

"  But,  before  you  git  a  mile,  there 's  a  dozen  roads ;  and,  in 
town,  there 's  two  hundred  houses.  You  'd  never  find  the  right 
one." 

"  I  '11  go  through  town,  through  every  street,  and  holler  for  the 
senora.  I  kin  holler  —  I  kin  !  Whoo— whoo — whoop  !  O  se- 
nora !  O  my  lady  Zulieme  !  Where  are  you  ?  I  'm  here  !  I  'm 
lookin'  for  you.  It 's  Sylvia  that 's  callin'  for  you  everywhere." 

"  Confound  the  b !  She  '11  wake  up  the  Injins  for  true,  ef 

any  of  'em  's  a-harborin'  about.  Hairk  ye,  gal !  do  n't  be  foolish. 
I  '11  see  you  safe/' 

"  Whoo — whoo — whoop  !" 

"  Was  ever  sich  a  bletherin'  b !  Hairk  ye,  gal !  Therts  'a 

Injins,  as  I  'm  a  livin'  sinner !" 

"Where?" 

He  got  up  to  her,  and  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"  They  're  in  the  woods,  on  the  right,  on  the  left,  front  and  rear • 
and  they  '11  have  your  sculp,  and  they  '11  have  mine  too,  ef  you 
don't  put  a  bridle  on  your  tongue.  Don't  be  a  fool!  I'll  carry 


A    NIGHT    OF   ADVENTURES.  425 

you  to  your  missus  —  the  half-witted  Spanish  fool !  I'll  carry  you 
safe.  Trust  me.  I  was  only  a-tryin'  you.  O  Lord,  presarve 
us  —  women 's  are  sich  blasted  fools  !" 

The  momentary  paroxysm  was  over.  Sylvia  was  quieted  by 
the  Indians,  though  she  snapped  her  fingers  at  the  wolves.  She 
had  an  infantile  dread,  as  a  Mexican,  of  red  fingers  in  her  hair. 
She  was  pacified,  but  only  on  conditions. 

"  Ef  you  talk  ag'in  the  senora,  I  '"11  bawl  though  there  were 
fifty  Injins !  I  must  go  to  the  senora.  You  must  take  me  to 
her." 

« I  will.'' 

"  And  no  more  about  your  Mrs.  Gideon,  or  I  *11  tell  all !" 

"  To  be  sure  not.     I  'm  still  as  a  suckfish." 

"  And  take  your  fingers  off  me.     I  'm  not  to  be  your  wife." 

"  No  !  to  be  sure  not." 

And  then  the  girl  yelled  again,  probably  at  her  painful  disap 
pointment.  "  Some  natural  tears  she  shed,  but  dried  them  soon." 
In  brief,  Sylvia  was  cunning.  The  arts  of  Gideon  had  not  suf 
fered  him  to  conceal  the  dread  of  his  spouse  which  he  felt.  In 
this,  Sylvia  found  her  strength  and  the  secret  of  her  safety.  Gid 
eon  grew  complaisant ;  and  if  he  did  not  utterly  forego  his  secret 
purpose  of  making  her  a  slave  to  himself,  he  yet  felt  that  his  pol 
icy  must  be  reserved  for  other  circumstances.  He  did  not  forego 
it;  but  he  said  to  himself — 

"  It  will  be  easier  to  fix  that,  when  we  've  got  the  senora  and 
her  bully  under  government  hatches !" 

The  result  was,  that  the  two  reached  town  in  safety ;  and,  though 
still  an  hour  before  day,  Sylvia  made  him  take  her  to  the  dwel 
ling  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  When  the  servant,  after  re 
peated  and  clamorous  rapping  with  a  stick,  was  roused  to  open 
the  door,  Sylvia  darted  in  headlong,  calling  for  the  senora.  Zu- 
lieme,  awakened  by  the  clamor  and  well-known  voice,  started  out 
of  bed,  and  threw  open  the  chamber-door.  Mrs.  Perkins  Ander 
son  was  also  roused,  and  appeared  at  the  same  moment.  Great 
was  the  confusion.  But  Sylvia,  as  each  lady  stood  before  her 
with  candle  in  hand,  soon  distinguished  her  "  missus." 

"  0  my  lady  !  O  senora  !  it 's  me  —  it 's  Sylvia  1  I  'm  come  to 
you  all  afoot;  and  there's  wolves  and  tigers,  and  the  red  Injins!'' 

"  Where  ?  where  ?"  demanded  both  ladies,  in  a  breath. 


426  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  In  the  woods  !  in  the  woods !  But  I  'm  safe  now.  O  my 
lady,  I  'm  safe  here,  I  know !" 

Gideon  Fairchild  slipped  off  in  the  confusion.  In  the  same 
hour  he  made  his  way  to  the  housing-place  of  Sylvester.  He 
could  find  that  cunning  master  of  fence,  though  Belcher  and 
Franks  could  not ;  and  he  found  him  a  willing  listener. 

He  had,  in  some  degree,  anticipated  the  tidings  of  Gideon.  He 
had  but  just  returned  from  a  secret  mission  to  Colonel  Morton, 
one  of  the  most  influential  of  the  council  of  state.  But  of  this; 
hereafter.  We  shall  see  that  Sylvester  lost  no  -time  in  availing 
himself  of  the  swelling  intelligence  which  was  brought  by  Gideon. 
But  this  in  due  season.  Let  us  to  bed  now. 


ODDS  AND  ENDS  WITHOUT  ENDING.        427 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

ODDS  AND  ENDS  WITHOUT  ENDING. 

"  Make  yourself  welcome  ! 

There 's  that  in  every  true  man  which  makes  entrance 
Happier  than  exit."  Old  Play. 

THE  night  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson's  glory  has  arrived ! 
This  night  she  is  to  outshine  all  her  competitors  in  the  fashion 
able  world  of  Oyster  Point.  She  is  to  take  the  shine  out  of  Mrs. 
Artemisia  Bluebottle  ;  the  wind  out  of  the  sails  of  Mrs.  Araminta 
Gay  lofty ;  and  utterly  to  outdo  and  undo  sundry  other  rivals  in 
fine  "  society."  She  is  about  to  reach  her  crowning  performance. 
Finis  coronat  opus  !  In  other  words,  she  will  put  the  finishing 
stroke  to  her  own  career. 

And  you  are  not  to  suppose,  dear  reader,  that  we  use  this  word 
"glory"  unwittingly,  and  without  a  due  regard  to  its  grand  sig 
nificance.  Glory,  like  wealth,  virtue,  and  other  imposing  things, 
is  yet  a  matter  of  relative  signification.  It  has  its  degrees,  and  is 
to  be  measured  by  the  usual  experiences  of  people,  rather  than 
by  any  intrinsic  standards  of  its  own.  The  society  which  rates 
pleasure  as  profit,  and  gawds  as  gain ;  which  holds  a  dance  or  a 
dinner  to  be  the  chief  end  and  employment  of  life  ;  and  which  aims 
at  no  higher  social  performance  than  simply  to  outshine  less  clever 
circles  —  in  all  such  society,  a  fete  like  that  of  Mrs.  Perkins  An 
derson,  attempting  exhibitions  and  attractions  such  as  far  exceed 
all  previous  aims  and  achievements,  is  a  thing  of  glorious  antici 
pation,  and,  if  successful,  unquestionably  of  most  glorious  result. 
Certainly  in  our  little  city  of  the  Carolinas,  if  she  succeeds  this 
time,  people  will  be  sure  to  say,  and  to  think,  that  the  measure  of 
her  glory  has  been  filled !  She  so  thinks  herself. 


428  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

And  this,  dear  reader,  if  only  with  regard  to  what  has  been 
done  already,  by  those  about  us,  not  by  those  remote. 

Now,  if  you  are  such  a  Judy  as  to  turn  up  your  ridiculous  little 
turnipy  nose  at  the  performance,  after  all,  and  say,  "  Ah !  they 
do  the  thing  far  otherwise  in  France  and  England,"  we  give  you 
up  as  wholly  immaterial !  "  Oyster  Point,"  or,  to  speak  with  more 
reverence,  Charleston,  is  not  exactly  Paris  or  London.  Even  to 
day,  when  we  have  a  far  cleverer  and  vastly  larger  circle  than  at 
the  period  of  which  we  write  —  far  more  wealth,  better  education, 
better  tastes,  and  a  better  knowledge  of  what  the  world  abroad 
has  done  and  is  doing  —  even  to-day,  I  say,  we  must  yet  fall 
within  the  category  of  a  petty  and  remote  provincial  offshoot 
from  European  civilization,  striving,  greatly  in  the  rear,  at  the  em 
ulation  of  its  beautiful  follies,  and  graceful  and  interesting  ab 
surdities  of  society  and  fashion.  It  is  "  high  life  below-stairs"  at 
best ;  though  we  have  some  very  simple  people  among  us  —  very 
good,  but  distressingly  simple  —  who  really  delude  themselves 
with  the  notion  that,  if  the  world  is  not  absolutely  staring  the 
eyes  out  of  its  head  to  see  what  we  are  doing,  the  world  is  making 
a  very  poor  and  unprofitable  use  of  its  vision ! 

But,  even  in  spite  of  such  good  people,  the  truth  may  as  well 
be  told.  Though  nearly  two  hundred  years  older  now  than  at 
the  date  of  our  story,  Charleston  has  not  overcome,  by  its  own 
forward  progress,  the  relative  difference  between  the  two  hemi 
spheres.  She  is  still  provincial  in  her  tastes,  habits,  aims,  and 
performances  ;  and  society  —  that  very  society  which  is  most  apt 
to  boast  of  its  possessions  —  yet  tinkers  on,  tied  to  the  foreign  car 
of  state  or  fashion,  lacking  the  courage  to  assert  an  independent 
and  well-founded  standard  of  judgment  for  itself.  This  is  the 
great  secret,  this  of  social  independence,  for  all  really  great  achieve 
ment,  and  which  we  need  to-day  almost  in  as  great  degree  as  we 
did  two  hundred  years  ago. 

Nay,  I  am  not  sure  that  our  need  is  not  greater  now  than  then. 
We  now  know  so  much  more !  We  have  a  superior  conscious 
ness.  We  are  not  so  rude  as  then,  and  not  so  ignorant  of  the 
merits  of  fig-leaves  in  the  way  of  costume.  We  are  in  closer  pro 
pinquity  with  Europe  than  in  that  early  day ;  lack  the  courage 
which  ignorance  imparts ;  and  dare  not  assert  ourselves  indepen 
dently,  in  the  face  of  our  own  consciousness  of  deficient  resources. 


ODDS  AND.  ENDS  WITHOUT  ENDING.        429 

Yet,  we  have  our  own  intrinsic  resources,  material  and  mental, 
it  we  only  knew  how,  and  had  the  courage  to  apply  them.  But 
we  do  not !  We  might  show  why  this  is  the  case,  but  this  is  not 
the  place  for  it.  Enough  that,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  it  will 
not  do  for  us  to  sneer  at  the  short-comings,  in  fashionable  or  high 
life,  of  the  daring  little  colony  at  Ashley  river  in  1684.  We  make 
better  displays  to-day,  no  doubt,  but  we  are  not  a  whit  less  servile 
in  our  imitations  of  what  is  done  elsewhere.  We  are  but  feeble 
copyists,  after  all,  of  the  butterfly-tribes  in  foreign  centres ;  nay, 
we  take  much  of  this  at  second  and  third  hands ;  and  Paris  and 
London  come  to  us,  diluted,  through  Gotham,  and  Boston,  and 
the  Quaker-city. 

We  state  all  this,  if  only  to  protect  old  Charleston,  in  its  little 
social  ambitions,  from  the  sneer  of  young  Charleston.  You  are 
to-day,  Mrs.  Frill,  but  a  development  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson. 
The  tail  is  longer  and  broader,  and  there  is  something  more  of 
fullness  about  the  pin-feathers;  but  you  are  birds  of  the  same 
feather.  I  do  not  see  that  Mrs.  Loftyhead,  of  1684,  differs  iii 
much  from  Mrs.  Furbelow,  whom  I  met  last  week  nightly  in  all 
the  four  fashionable  sets  of  the  present  city,  each  of  which  claims 
to  be  "  the  society"  of  the  place.  The  costume  was  very  much 
the  same.  In  latitude  and  longitude  of  skirt,  Mrs.  Furbelow  had 
certainly  the  advantage.  Her  hoops  were  twice  the  size  of  those 
of  Mrs.  Loftyhead  ;  and,  so  far  as  toggery  was  concerned,  the  palm 
would  unquestionably  be  carried  oif  by  the  former.  But,  to  coun 
terbalance  all  this,  compare  the  women.  The  natural  red  and 
white,  the  portly  proportions,  the  honest  bone  and  muscle,  of  the 
ancient  lady,  asserted  themselves  independently  of  costume :  they 
needed  no  plea ;  asked  no  indulgence ;  were  superior  to  all  the 
help  of  art.  She  could  have  -done  without  a  skirt ;  whalebone 
was  useless  in  her  case  ;  and  paddings  about  breast  and  body,  and 
red  varnishes  upon  the  cheeks,  were  never  dreamed  of.  She  had 
an  honest  English  bust,  which  could  beat  bravely  against  the  bo 
som  of  a  true  man,  in  a  wrestle  whether  of  love  or  hate. 

Alas,  for  the  fine  lady  of  to-day,  the  dashing  Mrs.  Furbelow ! 
It  is  really  pure  absurdity  to  talk  of  her  as  a  living  animal  at  all. 
She  needs  all  her  skirts  and  hoops,  and  paints,  padding,  and  var 
nish  !  And  her  leathery  skin,  sallow  and  yellow,  and  tallow,  at 
naked  fallow,  would,  without  these  helps,  provoke  nothing  but  dia- 


430  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

gust  and  revulsion.  And  chalk  and  rouge  help  her  little.  Veri 
ly,  let  us  not  sneer  at  old  times,  since  such  creatures  as  these  are 
tolerated  by  the  present.  There  was  more  honesty  in  their  arts 
as  well  as  in  their  flesh  and  blood ;  and  their  manners  were  de 
cidedly  better,  though  lacking  in  much  of  the  artifice  which  chills, 
and  moulds,  and  stales  all  modern  convention.  Give  me  honest 
flesh  and  blood,  I  say,  to  all  these  things  of  paste  and  putty ! 
And  give  me  the  honest  expression  of  a  native  sentiment,  how 
ever  rude  or  simple,  to  the  stereotyped  persiflage  of  a  circle  which 
is  confessedly  ignorant  of  an  idea,  and  lives  only  in  the  security 
of  a  well-memorized  commonplace. 

But,  bless  me !  we  are  keeping  you  from  the  company,  here  in 
the  hall ;  and  the  music  is  growing  earnest,  and  the  dancing  wil 
soon  begin.  And  yet,  a  little  while  longer,  let  us  delay  you  here 
We  have  something  to  say  of  the  hostess ;  to  let  you  into  certain 
secrets,  showing  why  she  especially  ought  to  make  her  fancy  ball 
a  clever  thing. 

We  have  shown  you,  we  trust,  that  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  is 
a  clever  woman.  She  is  naturally  a  strong  woman ;  quick,  sharp, 
acquisitive,  discriminative ;  and  with  instincts  that  have  a  hundred 
eyes.  She  has  also  blood ;  and  this,  with  nothing  to  do,  is  at  the 
bottom  of  all  the  evils  in  her  character.  She  must  expend  her 
superfluous  energies.  Lacking  regular  duties,  she  will  be  apt  to 
do  so  mischievously,  and  in  consonance  with  certain  very  natural 
instincts.  This  is  one  of  the  secret  causes  of  vicious  tendencies 
on  the  part  of  people  of  wealth,  who  have  also  health !  But  we 
must  not  be  essayical. 

Well,  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  is  a  clever  woman.  She  has  had 
opportunities ;  and  a  certain  probation  of  toil,  in  her  early  life, 
will  enable  her  to  do  clever  things  which  her  neighbors  will  hardly 
attempt.  As  an  Edinburgh  mantuamaker,  or  milliner,  and  what 
not,  she  had  acquired  sundry  experiences  in  the  offskirts  of  good 
society,  if  only  by  manufacturing  its  skirts.  She  is  a  good  clipper 
and  cutter  ;  had  been,  on  dit^  a  royal  clipper :  by  which  we  do  not 
mean  a  three-decker  or  a  yacht,  but,  in  literal  language,  a  manu- 
facturess  of  the  robes  and  dresses  of  certain  members  of  the  royal 
family ;  that  is,  when  they  happened,  in  Edinburgh,  to  feel  the 
lack  of  a  skirt.  And  it  may  be  in  London,  too,  for  the  lady  lived 
several  years  in  that  pleasant  little  borough-town,  and  carried  on 


ODDS   AND   ENDS   WITHOUT   ENDING.  431 

—  we  must  use  a  vulgarism  of  our  moderns  —  the  profession  of 
the  artiste  of  modes.  But  the  true  secret  of  her  claims  to  royal 
favor  consists,  probably,  in  her  having  been  employed  as  a  cos- 
turner  for  the  theatre,  where  she  made  the  robes  of  princes  and 
princesses,  lords  and  ladies,  and  accordingly  picked  up  some  no 
tions  at  once  of  high  art  and  high  people.  This  was  one  of  the 
scandals  against  the  lady,  put  in  circulation  in  Charleston  by  the 
envious  Mrs.  Golightly  —  a  lady  who  has  left  a  very  large  and 
rather  light  progeny  behind  her.  No  matter  how  Mrs.  Anderson 
gets  her  knowledge  —  she  has  it ;  and,  with  her  acknowledged 
cleverness,  you  may  be  sure  it  will  do  smart  things.  She  will 
get  up  her  part  of  this  fancy  ball  with  grace,  spirit,  and  effect. 
She  will  help  such  of  her  neighbors-  as  are  willing  to  ask  for  as 
sistance.  She  will  devise  suitable  characters  for  certain  persons, 
and  these  she  will  lesson  in  their  proper  personation :  she  has  a 
talent  for  this  business,  and  would  have  made  a  dextrous  mana 
ger  of  private  theatricals.  She  will  possibly  pass  to  these,  when 
she  has  once  carried  through  her  masquerade  ball  successfully. 

Successfully  ?  That  is  according  to  certain  provincial  stand 
ards.  Don't  be  unreasonable,  and  expect  too  much.  It  is  doubt 
ful  if,  according  to  the  ideal  standards,  we  could  get  up  a  success 
ful  masquerade  ball  anywhere  in  this  country !  It  is  reported 
that  when  Mr.  Dickens's  visit  to  New  York  was  in  contemplation, 
and  it  was  proposed  to  lionize  him,  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  fash 
ionables  of  that  city  said,  "  Can  we  make  him  fashionable  ?"  And 
this  query  was  but  a  natural  introduction  to  what  followed.  Tab 
leaux,  from  the  writings  of  the  author,  were  chosen,  as  the  most 
grateful  mode  of  paying  him  homage ;  and  it  was  then  that  the 
fashionables  were  compelled  to  buy  his  books  and  study  his  char 
acters.  Dickens  himself  soon  discovered  the  sort  of  hands  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  He  would  have  found  twenty  times  the  in 
telligence  among  the  weekday,  working  world,  which  his  enter 
tainers  had  ignored.  So,  if  you,  dear  brethren,  build  upon  the 
people  who  claim  to  be  "  in  society^'  as  the  parties  best  calcu 
lated  to  personate  the  grand  and  gorgeous  in  history  and  the 
drama,  you  will  find  it  politic,  before  you  begin,  to  put  them 
through  a  course  of  the  primers  and  Mother  Goose.  Do  not, 
therefore,  be  unreasonable  in  your  anticipations,  touching  the  pro- 
jet  of  our  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson. 


432  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

For,  look  you,  she  has  but  two  rooms,  twenty  feet  square,  and 
a  piazza,  forty  feet  long,  for  all  her  company.  The  chambers 
will  be  used  for  'tiring-rooms ;  and  there  shall  be  one  of  these  for 
the  tough,  the  other  for  the  tender  gender.  And  the  supper-table 
shall  be  spread  in  a  shed-room ;  but  she  will  give  them  a  famous 
supper  of  solids. 

But  there  is  no  ice,  alas  !     Ice  is  a  modern  invention  ! 

No ;  but  the  water  shall  be  cool.  It  is  kept  in  a  sort  of  "  mon 
keys,"  a  well-known  porous  vessel  of  that  day,  which  was  greatly 
in  use ;  and  these  shall  be  hung  in  the  trees  all  around  the  house, 
wrapped  with  wet  blankets :  and  you  will,  as  you  drink,  be  forced 
to  admit  that  our  ancestors  might  be  content  to  endure  to  live 
even  though  ice  was  not  invented ! 

There  were  no  ice-creams,  of  course ;  but  there  were  the  "West 
India  fruits,  sweetmeats,  jams,  pines,  berries,  grenadines,  all  in 
sirup  or  crusted  sugar.     And  there  were 

"  Fragrant  jellies,  fresh  from  Samarcand, 
And  lucent  sirups  tinct  with  cinnamon." 

Ay,  and  ginger  shall  be  sweet  in  the  mouth  too,  as  well  as  hot. 
There  will  be  no  lack,  be  sure,  of  any  of  the  cates  and  delicacies 
known  in  that  day  and  region.  Champagne  was  not ;  but  there 
was  Madeira,  and  (more  popular  yet)  there  were  bowls  of  punch, 
a  rare  marriage  of  the  strong,  the  sour,  and  the  sweet,  bringing 
about  such  harmonies  as  were  apt  to  "  seize  the  prisoned  soul  and 
lap  it  in  Elysium."  And,  as  the  invited  guests  probably  said  to 
themselves  and  to  one  another  — 

"  There  shall  be  no  want  of  music ; 

"  There  shall  be  free  footing  ;  and — 

"  Supper  at  twelve  o'clock !" — 

A  very  interesting  programme,  scarcely  inferior  to  that  usual 
at  ih  e  present  day. 

We  have  shown  what  was  the  population  of  Charleston  at  the 
date  of  our  history.  "We  have  also  given  some  idea  of  the  rude, 
wild,  irregular  state  of  its  topography.  But  a  few  more  words  on 
this  head,  by  way  of  description,  may  not  be  amiss.  We  have 
before  us  now  a  plan  of  the  infant  city,  as  laid  off  in  1680.  Fan 
cy,  then,  a  great  shoulder  of  bacon,  with  the  knuckle  at  what  is 
now  "  the  Battery."  On  the  east  side  there  is  an  irregular  plat, 


ODDS  AND  ENDS  WITHOUT  ENDING.         433 

hree  main  streets  running  south  and  north,  crossed  by  four 
others  running  east  and  west.  There  are  lines  drawn,  which  in 
dicate  bastions  and  a  wall,  encircling  the  whole.  These  lines  are 
limits  which  you  will  find  now  all  comprised  within  Market  street 
on  the  north,  Meeting  street  on  the  west,  Water  street  on  the 
south,  and  the  Bay  on  the  east ;  and  half  of  this  is  a  quagmire, 
and  quite  unsettled.  South,  west,  north,  and  east,  the  ground 
which  the  ^ity  now  occupies  is  perforated  by  creeks  that  stretch 
up  almost  to  a  meeting,  from  Ashley  river  on  the  west  and  Cooper 
on  the  east.  We  count  no  less  than  ten  of  these  creeks,  so  inter 
secting  the  territory  between  the  southern  terminus  of  the  city 
and  Calhoun  street,  which  crosses  it  now  nearly  at  the  centre. 
Between  each  of  these  creeks  there  is  a  little  farmstead  ;  scarcely 
more  than  one.  Here  is  a  ricefield ;  here  a  cornfield ;  here  a 
vegetable-garden  ;  and  here  a  brick-kiln.  The  watch-house  stands 
at  the  southern  extremity,  wholly  beyond  call  of  the  citizens. 
There  is  a  "  block-house,"  with  two  pieces  of  cannon  contiguous, 
looking  out  on  Ashley  river.  There  is  another  watch-house,  or 
court  of  guard,  at  the  east  end  of  Broad  street,  where  the  custom 
house  now  stands ;  and,  at  half  a  dozen  points,  the  sites  are  indi 
cated  for  future  bastions,  which  were  not  raised  for  ten  years 
after.  The  great  avenues  of  Meeting  and  King  streets  were  laid 
out, and  the  former  opened  for  several  miles  into  the  interior;  but, 
in  bad  weather,  these  were  almost  impassable.  All  the  creeks 
were  bold  ones,  navigable  by  boats  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
town.  Their  banks  were  fringed  with  shrubbery,  and  sometimes 
their  margins  covered  with  marsh.  No  wonder  that  Molyneaux 
got  his  shoes  muddied  !  The  wonder  is,  that,  in  such  limits,  liv 
ing  so  crudely,  there  should  be  such  people  as  Mrs.  Anderson  and 
Lady  Highflier ;  that  there  should  be  balls  and  parties ;  that  am 
bition  should  soar  to  such  a  pitch  as  to  achieve  a  masquerade.  It 
will  be  seen  that  Mrs.  Anderson  was  no  ordinary  woman  ! 

Though  giving  all  help  and  instruction  to  every  pretty  and 
young,  and  some  ugly  and  antique  damsels  —  antiques,  but  not 
gems  —  our  excellent  hostess  was  especially  heedful  to  instruct 
her  beautiful  little  guest  in  the  way  that  she  should  [not  ?]  go. 
She  had  forgotten,  had  foregone,  none  of  her  projects.  She  had 
carried  out  her  purpose  to  caparison  Zulieme  as  Titania.  She 
bad  persuaded  the  Honorable  Mr.  Keppel  Craven  to  don  the 

19 


434  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

golden  armor  of  Oberon.  Precious  little  did  Zulieme  know  of 
Titania ;  but  she  could  frisk  and  dance  like  a  faerie,  and  she  could 
be  deceived  by  a  clown !  Now,  Keppel  Craven  was  no  clown, 
though  he  wore  his  own  ears.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  pleased  to  say 
to  him  that  Oberon  was  born  to  conquest ;  that  his  part  was,  not 
to  fail ;  that  he  could  not  fail,  with  proper  audacity ;  and  that,  if 
he  would  only  comprehend  his  real  attractions,  there  could  be  no 
apprehensions  of  failure.  Certainly,  her  lessons  were  quite  enough 
to  make  him  impudent.  She  designed  that  they  should  make  him 
more.  Mere  impudence  may  say  saucy  things,  and,  with  proper 
encouragement,  encountering  a  weaker  object,  may  be  bold  enough 
to  do  them ;  but  it  is  the  will  —  the  reckless  resolve  not  to  fail, 
but  to  carry  a  purpose  through,  without  heeding  check,  and  de 
spite  of  hinderance  —  this  was  the  sort  of  spirit  with  which  Mrs. 
Perkins  Anderson  would  infuse  the  Honorable  Mr.  Craven. 

The  better  to  help  him  in  his  progress,  she  bestowed  her  coun 
sels  on  Zulieme.  When  the  latter  happened  to  say  — 

"Where  can  Harry  be?  I  wonder  if  he  will  come  to-night?'' 
she  answered : — 

"  What  matter  if  he  comes  or  not  ?  What 's  the  good  of  him, 
or  any  husband  ?  Marriage,  my  dear  Zulieme,  is  only  a  tyran 
nous  bondage,  invented  by  husbands,  who  seek  to  keep  by  law 
what  they  can  not  keep  by  love !  Their  jealousy  and  our  cow 
ardice  are  the  secrets  of  this  tyranny.  It  is  against  Nature,  which 
is  the  proper  teacher ;  and  where  we  feel  a  liking,  there  we  may 
entertain  a  love.  What !  because  we  have  been  mistaken  in  the 
objects  of  our  affections,  shall  we  be  tied  to  a  hateful  object  foi 
ever?  To  be  sure  not!  I'm  certain,  if  I  saw  anybody  to  lov« 
better  than  Perkins  Anderson,  I  'd  give  him  my  heart  directly." 

"  But  would  that  be  right,  Charlotte  ?" 

"Right!  What's  right?  Isn't  Nature  right?  Don't  she 
know  best  ?  Marriage,  where  the  nature  is  not  prepared  to  love, 
is  only — " 

But  we  care  not  to  repeat.  The  argument  is  already  well 
known,  and  is  in  the  mouths  of  a  good  -many  strong-minded  wo 
men. 

"  Ah !  but  I  love  Harry,"  said  poor  little  Zulieme,  with  a  sigh, 

"  You !     You  love  that  stern  British  brute,  as  you  call  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  !  —  I  suppose  because  he  is  a  brute !     I  wish  he  'd 


ODDS   AND   ENDS   WITHOUT   ENDING.  435 

come  to-night.  I  'm  sure  he  can  outdance  all  these  people.  That 
young  Craven,  though  he 's  a  most  funny  little  fellow,  can  't  dance 
with  Harry." 

"  Oh  !  do  n't  let  him  hear  you  call  him  little." 

"  But  he  is  little  !" 

"  No  !  He 's  of  good  size  enough  —  not  to  compare  with  Harry 
Calvert,  of  course  —  he's  a  sort  of  monster  —  but  a  most  superior 
cavalier.  Ah,  what  a  conquest  you  've  made,  Zulieme  !  Keppel 
Craven  loves  you  to  distraction." 

"  He  's  a  fool  for  it ;  for  I  do  n't  love  him  !" 

"Oh,  don't  say  so,  Zulieme!  If  ever  woman  loved  a  man, 
I  'm  sure  you  love  him." 

"Me!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  he 's  such  a  proper  match  for  you !" 

"  Match  for  me !  Why,  Charlotte !  And  I  'm  married  al 
ready." 

"  What  if  you  are  ?  Does  your  being  married  make  you  a 
slave  ?  Does  it  forbid  that  you  shall  feel  ?  Can  it  ?  No !  And, 
if  it  can't,  it 's  only  hypocrisy  to  pretend  that  it  does.  I  tell  you, 
Zulieme,  marriage  is  a  cunning  invention  of  the  men,  the  better 
to  make  slaves  of  us  poor  women !" 

"  But  you  're  not  a  slave,  Charlotte  !  and  I  'm  not  a  slave !" 

"  But  if  we  should  happen  to  love  another  man  than  our  hus 
band,  Zulieme — we  can't  help  it,  you  know  —  shall  we  be  denied 
to  do  so?  And  doesn't  marriage  deny  it?  and  ain't  that  bond 
age  ?  and  ain't  bondage  slavery  ?  Ay,  we  poor  women  are  the 
merest  slaves !  But  we  are  not  to  submit.  I  know  that  you  do 
love  Keppel  Craven,  and  he's  worthy  of  it,  and  I  don't  see  the 
harm  of  it!  ' 

"  Well,  it's  strange,  Charlotte.  I  don't  think  I  care  a  bit  about 
him ;  and  I  'm  very  sure  if  Harry  thought  he  was  making  love  to 
me,  he'd  wring  his  neck  !" 

"  Wring  his  neck  ?  Shocking !  Dear  Zulieme,  you  must  drop 
all  these  horrid  phrases." 

"  But  he'd  do  it,  Charlotte  !" 

"Well,  if  he  could,  perhaps;  because  it's  the  nature  of  tyranny 
to  enforce  its  laws  by  violence.  But,  if  Keppel  Craven  loved  me, 
and  I  him,  precious  little  would  I  care  for  its  laws,  and  bonds,  anj3 
rites!  I'd—" 


43f>  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

Enough  of  this !  Enough  for  us  to  know  that  the  true  nature 
of  our  little  Spanish  sefiora  is  not  understood  —  even,  perhaps,  by 
those  who  know  her  best.  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  at  all  events, 
has  been  making  some  mistakes,  in  spite  of  all  her  cleverness. 
Zulieme  listens  to  her  social  and  moral  philosophy  with  some  cool 
ness,  possibly  some  impatience.  But  Zulieme's  passions  are  not 
to  be  reached  through  her  mind.  She  could  not  be  argued  into 
sinful  fancies.  Intellectually,  she  is  a  thing  all  shallows  —  lim 
pid  as  a  brook  at  play  in  breeze  and  sunlight ;  and  her  training, 
in  a  secluded  hacienda,  among  simple  people,  has  not  tended  to 
enlighten  her  passions,  though  it  may  have  increased  the  spright- 
liness  of  her  fancies.  All  the  morals  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson 
were  wasted  upon  her ;  and  she  thought  only  of  the  dance,  and 
not  of  the  dancer,  even  though  he  should  be  the  Honorable  Kep- 
pel  Craven. 

Suppose  the  company  to  be  assembling  fast.  There  are  coaches 
at  the  door.  The  "  shay"  was  one  of  the  vehicles  of  Charleston 
in  that  day,  and  the  "  chair ;"  and  these  were  the  most  numerous. 
Some  of  the  gentlemen  came  on  horseback ;  none  on  foot.  The 
streets  were  without  sidewalks,  and  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson's 
"  circle"  contemplated  no  such  persons  as  needed  their  own  legs 
for  any  other  than  dancing-purposes.  It  was,  accordingly,  a  stag 
gering  circumstance,  when  the  servant  in  green-and-scarlet  livery 
was  required  to  admit  our  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  even  though 
in  the  garb  of  a  cavalier,  when  he  presented  himself  on  foot. 
Molyneaux  came  under  the  guidance  of  Sproulls,  who  was  talka 
tive,  and  addressed  him  all  the  way  as  "  captain."  That  our  lieu 
tenant  did  not  seem  startled  by  this  title,  and  made  no  remark 
upon  it,  was  calculated  to  confirm  Sproulls  in  his  suspicion  that 
he  was  piloting  the  famous  rover.  But  Molyneaux  had  been 
made  somewhat  familiar  with  the  title  by  the  free  use  which 
the  politic  old  rogue,  Fowler,  had  made  of  it,  in  winning  him 
over  to  his  purposes.  Sproulls  was  exceedingly  communicative, 
and  pretty  free  in  his  comments  upon  the  fine  women  about  town, 
who,  according  to  his  report,  were  quite  "  fast"  enough  for  our 
own  day.  But  his  scandals  were  sufficiently  natural  to  one  who 
•was  not  admitted  within  the  sacred  precincts.  He  pointed  out 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  and  stood  at  a  little  distance,  to  see 
him  enter.  There  was  some  delay  in  this  proceeding.  The  house 


ODD3  AND  ENDS  WITHOUT  ENDING.         437 

was  already  pretty  well  filled ;  and  the  stout  negro  who  officiated 
as  porter  was,  as  we  have  said,  quite  staggered  to  see  the  stranger 
present  himself  on  foot.  The  fine  clothes  certainly  made  their 
impression;  but,  no  horse  —  no  carriage!  The  fellow  parleyed 
with  our  lieutenant : — 

"  But,  I  say,  maussa,  whay  you  hitch  you'  hoss  ?" 

"  Horse  ?  I  had  no  horse  !" 

"  Carriage  —  shay  —  den  ?" 

"  I  did  n't  ride,  fellow  !     I  walked !" 

"  Ki !  maussa !  wha'  for  you  walk  ?    You  hab  ticket  for  come  ?" 

"Ticket  be  !  What  do  I  want  with  a  ticket?  Stand 

aside,  fellow !  Clear  the  gangway ;  and  none  of  your  

palaver !" 

The  lieutenant  suited  the  action  to  the  word ;  and,  hurling  the 
servant  aside  contemptuously,  with  no  little  emphasis  of  muscle, 
he  proceeded  to  enter  the  house. 


488  THE    CASS1QUE   OF   KIAWAH 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

HOW    THE    REVEL    SPED. 

"  You  have  displaced  the  mirth  ;  broke  the  good  meeting, 
With  most  admired  disorder."  Macbeth. 

MOLYNEAUX'S  proceedings,  at  entrance,  were  not  of  a  sort  U 
escape  notice.  He  was  rough-handed  in  his  practice :  the  negro 
was  hurled  aside  as  if  he  had  been  a  stone.  Pompey  was  a  spoiled 
negro,  as  are  half  of  the  old  family-servants  of  the  South.  He 
was  a  fellow  apt  to  put  himself  upon  his  dignity.  At  the  treat 
ment  of  Molyneaux,  so  new  to  his  experience,  he  made  lamenta 
ble  outcry.  His  mistress  was  upon  the  watch.  Never  lady,  about 
to  achieve  glory  in  good  society,  more  vigilant.  She  was  instantly 
in  the  piazza.  She  encountered  our  lieutenant  at  the  threshold, 
and  with  no  little  stateliness. 

"  Sir!"  said  she,  haughtily. 

"Ma'am!"  quoth  he. 

"  Whom,  sir,  have  I  the  honor  to  receive  ?" 

Molyneaux  was  an  Irishman  and  a  rover.  Whatever  the  de 
gree  of  bashfulness  which  belongs  to  the  one  character,  it  was  more 
than  relieved  by  the  boldness  which  should  always  accompany  the 
other.  In  spite  of  his  origin,  Molyneaux  was  nowise  wanting  in 
proper  self-esteem. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  you  are,  I  fancy,  the  lady  of  the  house. 
I  am  a  friend  of  your  guest,  the  Senora  Zulieme  Calvert.  I  wish 
to  see  her." 

"  Hush  !  hush !  for  God's  sake,  sir !  That  name  is  not  to  be 
spoken  here." 

The  language  of  the  hostess  was  that  of  trepidation.  Our  bash 
ful  Irishman  was  evidently  wanting  in  a  knowledge  of  "  the  ropes." 

"  Ah  !  I  see ;  but  I  am  her  friend,  her  old  acquaintance." 


HOW   THE   REVEL   SPED.  439 

"  Who  are  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  madam,  I  do  n't  know  but  that  a  like 
caution  should  forbid  me  giving  my  own  name.  But  if  you  are  in 
the  secrets  of  the  Sefiora — " 

"  Still,  sir,  it  needs  not  that  I  should  know  yours.  But  I  can 
guess  them.  Perhaps,  sir,  the  shortest  and  best  course  will  be  to 
suffer  you  to  see  the  lady." 

"That's  it,  madam.     There  can  be  no  harm  done." 

"  None,  sir.     Please  follow  me.'* 

And  she  took  him  to  the  rear  of  the  piazza — in  the  back 
ground —  where  he  could  remain  unseen  by  new-comers.  She 
then  brought  Zulieme  to  him.  He  lifted  his  mask  at  her  ap 
proach. 

"  What !  you,  Molyneaux  ?"  cried  Zulieme,  in  tones  of  pleas 
ure,  offering  her  hand.  "  I  'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  knew  you  would  be,  senora,"  responded  our  bashful  Irish 
man,  grasping  her  hand  warmly,  and  carrying  it  to  his  lips. 

"But  where's  Harry,  and  whereas  the  ship?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  the  captain  for  a  week." 

"  Not  for  a  week  !     And  where  is  he,  then  ?" 

"  On  a  cruise  somewhere,  which  he  keeps  secret." 

"  Ah  !  well  —  and  what  brings  you  here  ?" 

"  The  felicity  of  seeing  you." 

"  Well,  you're  come  at  the  right  time,  and  I  see  you  're  dressed 
for  the  occasion,  as  if  you  knew  of  it." 

"  To  confess  a  truth,  I  did  know  of  it ;  and  here  you  see  me,  as 
I  am." 

"  Well,  now,  Charlotte—" 

Mrs.  Anderson  was  present  during  the  scene,  a  silent  but  not 
an  unobservant  spectator. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  how  would  you  dispose  of  your  friend  ?" 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,  have  him  in  among  the  rest." 

"  But  is  there  no  danger  ?" 

"  Danger  !  from  what  ?" 

"  Danger,  madam,  is  a  familiar  acquaintance.  I  have  slept 
with  it  nightly  for  seven  years !" 

Mrs.  Anderson  thought  to  herself:  "The  man's  well  to  look 
on ;  he  is  in  courtly  costume ;  he  will  be  a  handsome  addition  to 
my  party ;  and  the  very  fact  that  he  is  unknown,  and  can  not  be 


440  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

well  suspected  by  anybody,  will  make  him  a  lion.  But  we  must 
make  him  keep  close." 

"  Zulieme,  my  dear,  there  can,  perhaps,  be  no  danger,  if  your 
friend,  Mr. ?" 

A  pause. 

"Mr.  Molyneaux  —  Lieutenant  Molyneaux  —  next  officer  to 
Harry  in  the  ship — " 

"  If  Mr.  Molyneaux  will  be  careful  not  to  forego  his  disguise 
for  a  moment." 

"  Wear  my  mask  all  the  while,  madam,  you  mean  ?" 

"  Exactly,  sir." 

"  Egad,  madam,  I  can  do  it,  and  will,  if  you  require  it ;  but  I  'm 
not  much  used  to  disguisings,  and  my  face,  madam — " 

He  lifted  his  visor  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  and  by  the 
action  properly  finished  the  sentence.  The  smiling  Mrs.  Ander 
son  found  the  appropriate  words  — 

"  Is  not  one  that  you  need  be  ashamed  of." 

"?Gad,  madam,  you  have  the  proper  idea!" 

"  Well,  sir,  your  costume  is  that  of — " 

"  Sir  Edward  Molyneaux,  madam,  who  had  the  honor,  long  ago, 
to  be  a  frequent  attendant  at  the  court  of  his  majesty  King  Charles 
I.  He  lost  his  head,  madam — " 

"  Enough,  sir.  Do  not  lose  yours,  if  you  please.  I  know 
enough  of  your  ship  and  captain  to  know  that  you,  as  well  as  he, 
would  be  in  some  danger  here  if  discovered.  You  will  exercise 
the  utmost  caution.  Go  in,  my  love  —  go  in,  Zulieme  —  and  we 
shall  follow  you.  Be  pleased  not  to  know  your  friend,  till  I  intro 
duce  him  as  Sir  Edward  Molyneaux." 

Zulieme  disappeared,  and,  after  a  reasonable  pause,  the  lady  of 
the  house  followed  her  into  the  ballroom,  and  was  followed  in 
turn  by  Sir  Edward.  In  this  character  he  was  formally  intro 
duced  to  a  number  of  persons,  male  and  female,  who  were  all  des 
ignated  in  character.  Many  of  these  were  known  to  the  party 
through  their  disguises ;  but  our  Sir  Edward  was  a  mystery,  and 
so  naturally  provoked  no  small  curiosity,  especially  as  he  boasted 
a  fine  leg,  and  was  altogether  a  very  graceful  fellow  in  his  court 
costume. 

Costume  or  fancy  balls  are  very  rarely  successful,  in  any  dra 
matic  sense  of  the  term.  Very  few  persons  are  equal  to  the  im- 


HOW  THE  REVEL  SPED.  441 

personation  of  marked  characters,  even  where  they  are  acquainted 
fully  with  the  biography  of  him  or  her  whom  they  represent. 
Actors,  like  poets,  are  born,  not  made.  But  fine  dresses,  and  gay 
humors,  and  lively  music,  and  our  own  exercise  in  the  dance,  will 
carry  off  an  affair  of  the  kind  with  sufficient  eclat.  Anyhow,  and 
with  all  its  defects,  a  masquerade  ball  is  a  great  improvement  on 
that  of  mere  existing  society.  There  is  more  privilege,  more 
piquancy,  and  so  much  more  variety !  You  are  to  understand 
that  this  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  though  pettily  provincial  in  a  thou 
sand  respects,  was  yet  perfectly  delightful,  for  the  time  it  lasted, 
to  all  the  parties  engaged  in  it ;  and  even  the  Honorable  Messrs. 
Craven  and  Cavendish  permitted  themselves  for  a  brief  season  to 
forget  the  more  imposing  conventions  of  the  court  from  which  they 
were  in  temporary  exile. 

But  the  affair  had  its  desagremens  even  to  these  courtier  gen 
tles.  The  Honorable  Keppel  was  particularly  annoyed  at  the 
cool  familiarity  which  the  imposing  stranger,  Sir  Edward  Moly- 
neaux,  exhibited  in  his  intercourse  with  the  fair  Zulieme.  Moly- 
neaux  put  himself  very  soon  at  home ;  and  the  very  experience 
of  his  rover-life  rendered  him  a  confident  and  presumptuous  wooer. 
He  strode  the  hall  with  the  same  command  and  freedom  which  he 
exhibited  on  the  quarter-deck,  when  no  sailor  dared  to  pass  be 
tween  the  wind  and  his  nobility.  He  sat  beside  the  lovely  Zu 
lieme,  the  moment  a  seat  became  vacant ;  and  more  than  once  he 
took  her  hand,  and,  toying  with  her  fan,  she  was  seen  to  rap  him 
playfully  over  his  fingers,  evidently  to  chide  or  check  some  de 
voted  speech.  But  she  smiled  gayly  as  she  did  so,  and  he  had 
his  retort  —  wpuld  playfully  seize  the  fan,  and  agitate  the  atmo 
sphere  about  her  into  breezes  rather  than  zephyrs,  being  but 
slightly  accustomed  to  deal  with  such  delicate  implements. 

"  The  d d  impudent  puppy  !"  muttered  the  Honorable  Kep 
pel.  "  Who  can  he  be  ?" 

"  He  seems  an  old  acquaintance,"  replied  Cavendish  ;  "  but  he  'B 
evidently  no  Spaniard.  I  begin  to  tremble  for  our  guineas,  Keppel." 

«  D — nation,  yes !     I  must  see  Madam  Anderson." 

"  The  worst  is,  the  senorita  seems  wonderfully  pleased  with  his 
attentions." 

"Oh,  she's  pleased  with  all  attentions!  The  kitten  appears 
hardly  to  care  with  what  mouse  she  plays." 

19* 


442  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  He 's  no  mouse  !  He  carries  himself  like  a  bully,  a  roystering 
soldier  from  the  Low  Countries." 

"  We  must  find  him  out.     Ha,  for  the  coranto  !" 

And,  so  speaking,  the  Honorable  Keppel  darted  across  the 
room  to  Zulieme,  and  extended  his  hand  to  take  her  out.  She 
rose  and  gave  it  him,  but  Molyneaux  interposed  promptly : — 

"  How's  this?     Was  I  not  to  dance  with  you,  Zulieme?" 

"  Zulieme  !"  muttered  Craven.     "  Dem'd  free  !" 

"  The  next  dance,"  she  answered,  to  Molyneaux ;  "  not  this." 

Molyneaux  growled  out  some  guttural,  which  had  no  softness 
in  it,  and  glared  through  his  vizard  at  the  effeminate  courtier  as 
he  bore  the  lady  into  the  area.  With  an  oath,  he  muttered  — 

"I  should  like  to  wring  the  fellow's  neck  !" 

"Who's  your  friend?"  asked  the  Honorable  Keppel  of  the 
senorita. 

"  He?  why,  he's — "  and  then  she  paused. 

"He's  who?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me!  I  do  know,  but  I  can't  tell  you.  But> 
no  matter — he's  nobody." 

And  they  whirled  away  under  the  call  of  the  music. 

Molyneaux  followed  them  round  the  room,  in  all  their  evolu 
tions,  like  a  grim  Afrite  following  a  fairy  fresh  from  Yemen ; 
and  whenever  his  eyes  met  those  of  Craven,  the  mutual  flash  of 
each  showed  that  their  instincts  had  already  made  them  bitter 
enemies.  But  dear  little  Zulieme  saw  nothing  of  this.  She  was 
exhilarated ;  laughed  merrily  with  her  partner ;  yielded  herself 
voluptuously  to  all  the  caprices  of  the  dance ;  went  through  the 
corantos,  the  lavoltas,  the  delicias,  with  all  the  gusto  of  an  eastern 
almee  —  little  dreaming  that  Molyneaux  was  writhing  with  rage, 
and  fumbling  the  hilt  of  his  rapier,  and  muttering  his  prayers  that 
somebody,  of  the  masculine  gender,  might  look  at  him  and  sneeze  ! 

But  it  was  soon  his  turn  to  dance,  and  Craven's  to  writhe.  The 
next  dance  brought  them  into  the  same  circle,  but  this  time  Moly 
neaux  danced  with  Zulieme,  and  Keppel  with  another  damsel. 
And  now  was  Molyneaux  all  exultation,  for  Zulieme  was  just  as 
full  of  glee  and  buoyant  fancy  as  when  she  danced  with  Craven ; 
yielded  herself  just  as  fondly  to  his  embraces  ;  and  scarcely  seemed 
to  heed  the  graceful  voluptuary,  as  he  swam,  in  corresponding 
mazes,  with  another  fair  partner,  directly  opposite. 


HOW  THE  REVEL  SPED.  443 

But  Craven  was  not  so  indifferent. 

"The  dem'd  puppy!"  he  muttered,  whenever  his  eyes  met 
with  those  of  Molyneaux ;  and  when  the  two  danced  toward  each 
other,  it  could  be  seen  that  there  was  a  something  mutually  defi 
ant  in  their  manner.  There  was  a  haughty  toss  of  the  head  on 
one  side,  and  an  insolent  bull-fling  of  the  other  forward ;  and  the 
parties  each  felt  as  if  the  occasion  were  approaching  when  they 
must  surely  take  each  other  by  the  throat.  The  awkwardness 
of  Molyneaux  in  the  dance  nearly  led  to  this  result  in  the  prog 
ress  of  this  very  round.  Whirling  Zulieme  about,  and  following 
her  movements  very  unequally  with  his  own,  he  found  himself 
entangled  with  a  group,  and,  setting  down  one  of  his  feet  with 
emphasis,  as  if  to  secure  himself  steadily  in  position,  he  planted 
the  heavy  heel  on  the  pointed  toe  of  the  Honorable  Keppel,  who 
was  just  then  gliding,  with  zephyr-like  sweep,  beside  him. 

We  know  not  what  was  the  exact  condition  of  Craven's  toes. 
He  possibly  had  a  corn  or  two  which  no  delicate  surgery  had  yet 
been  able  to  extirpate.  His  pumps  were  perhaps  new,  and  tight 
as  new.  One  thing  was  certain :  that  setting  down  of  his  foot  by 
Molyneaux  had  been  terribly  emphatic.  The  Honorable  Keppel 
writhed  under  it  with  a  bitter  cry ;  doubled  up  his  body,  down 
ward  from  his  shoulders;  dropped  the  hand  of  his  partner — her 
waist,  perhaps  —  while  she  went  over  headlong  into  another  set; 
the  victim,  meanwhile,  catching  up  the  suffering  foot  in  his  hand, 
and  muttering  a  fearful  malediction  upon  the  elephantine  hoof 
that  caused  the  injury. 

A  hoarse  laugh  from  Molyneaux,  which  he  could  not  suppress, 
disgusted  the  hearers,  and  even  aroused  Zulieme. 

"You've  hurt  him  !"  she  said  ;  and  he  muttered,  in  reply — 

"  D — n  him  !  not  half  enough." 

She  dropped  his  arm ;  and,  hearing  his  insolent  laugh,  Craven 
now  approached  and  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"  You  shall  answer  for  this  !" 

"  To  be  sure,  I  will ;  and  you  shall  answer  too !"  was  the  fierce 
reply,  a  little  too  loudly  uttered,  since  it  reached  other  ears  than 
those  for  whom  it  was  meant.  There  was  a  buzz  about  the  room, 
and  some  confusion.  Mrs.  Anderson  began  to  fear  that  her  party 
might  fail  yet.  Craven,  with  a  nice  propriety,  whispered  again 
in  Molyneaux's  ear,  as  he  saw  the  hostess  approaching : — 


444  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

"We  understand  each  other.  Let  us  keep  up  appearances 
Take  my  hand,  that  it  may  seem  as  if  the  matter  were  amicably 
settled." 

And  he  extended  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  lifted  his  vizard,  and 
smiled  graciously,  with  a  bow.  Molyneaux  caught  tfce  proffered 
hand  with  a  vice-like  gripe  which  made  the  other  wince. 

"  Ay,  we  understand  each  other !" 

The  action  arrested  the  confusion  for  awhile:  the  dance  was 
resumed ;  refreshments  were  served ;  the  chat  once  more  became 
hilarious ;  and,  leaving  the  company  in  a  good  humor,  we  will 
change  the  scene  to  the  lodgings  of  Sproulls,  where  we  left  Sam 
Fowler,  the  old  salt  and  pirate  —  "  Squint-eye  Sam"  —  beginning, 
with  a  few  kindred  spirits,  a  night  of  grosser  debauchery. 


THE   TIGER   BREAKS   THE  TRAP.  445 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE    TIGEK    BREAKS    THE    TRAP. 

"  Countess.  If  thou  be  he,  then  art  thou  prisoner. 
Talbot.  Prisoner'?     To  whom  ? 
Countess.  To  me,  bloodthirsty  lord; 

And  for  that  cause  I  trained  thee  to  my  house.  .  . 
Talbot.  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  SHAKESPEARE. 

THERE  is  always  a  latent  infirmity  in  crime,  that  serves  finally 
to  defeat  the  efforts  and  designs  of  the  most  vigorous  sort  of  man 
hood.  Crime,  in  fact,  presupposes  a  defect  of  mind,  as  it  does  of 
character.  The  most  vigorous  and  thinking  criminal  shall  yet  be 
a  victim  to  certain  shortcomings  of  calculation,  or  some  qualifying 
weaknesses,  which  shall  operate  to  the  ultimate  defeat  of  all  his 
purposes.  And  if  this  be  the  fact  in  the  case  of  those  who  are 
really  well  and  vigorously  endowed,  what  must  be  the  defect  in 
the  case  of  a  coarse  ruffian  like  our  old  pirate,  Sam  Fowler? 
This  wretch  had  been  lapped  in  crime  and  suckled  on  infamy. 
He  had  been  made  callous  by  brawls  and  bloodshed ;  reckless  by 
self-indulgence  and  drunkenness.  Yet  he  could  conceive  great 
purposes  of  outlawry,  had  his  ambition  for  rule,  and  aimed  at  a 
certain  control  and  supremacy  over  his  fellow-men.  But,  even 
while  he  planned  conspiracy,  which  required  the  utmost  prudence 
as  well  as  the  utmost  resolution,  he  was  so  little  capable  of  re 
straining  his  licentious  habits,  that,  though  the  success  of  -his 
projects  required  the  greatest  sobriety  —  and  while  in  a  hostile 
city,  where  a  reward  was  offered  for  his  head  —  he  had  not  the 
necessary  strength  which  should  keep  from  drunkenness,  nor  the 
degree  of  caution  which  might  shelter  from  detection. 

So,  accordingly,  while  the  vanities  of  his  colleague  and  superior, 


446  THE   CASSTQUE   OF   KTAWAH. 

Molyneaux,  led  him  to  exhibit  his  legs  at  the  bal  costume  of  Mad 
am  Anderson,  he  (Fowler)  regaled  himself  at  Sproulls's,  with  a 
villanously  low  circle,  on  the  strongest  potations  and  the  heaviest 
meats.  « 

Sproulls  was  in  quasi  alliance  with  the  keen  and  cunning  Syl 
vester,  alias  Stillwater.  It  is  needless  to  try  and  fathom  the  se 
cret  between  these  two  persons.  But  it  is  certain  that  Sproulls 
was  much  more  decidedly  the  agent  of  Stillwater  than  the  friend 
of  Fowler.  Whether  he  wished  to  acquire  a  claim  on  the  favors 
of  Stillwater,  or  that  he  desired  to  obtain  a  clue  to  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  rover  Calvert,  matters  nothing  to  us.  His  motive 
need  not  tax  our  inquiry.  Enough  that  he  fancies  Molyneaux  to 
be  Calvert.  He  has  contrived  so  to  report  to  Sylvester,  and  to 
furnish  all  the  clues  to  the  present  employment  of  the  lieutenant. 
The  next  matter  is  to  secure  Fowler. 

This  required  management.  Fowler  is  an  old  sea-dog,  of  vig 
orous  frame,  well  armed,  and  of  determined  courage.  A  city  po 
lice  is  not  always  equal  to  a  hand-and-hand  encounter  with  a  des 
perado,  and  it  requires  a  very  considerable  superiority  of  force 
before  the  attempt  will  be  made.  But  the  preliminaries  have 
been  overcome.  There  is  a  hot  supper  —  steaks,  oysters,  and 
other  good  things  —  at  Sproulls's  den,  the  locality  of  which  may 
yet  be  designated,  somewhere  in  the  purlieus  of  Queen  street  and 
the  bay.  Hot  rum-punch  is  in  abundance,  and  no  bette^^-beverage 
is  asked  for  until  the  period  arrives  when,  the  taste  silenced,  the 
appetite  calls  for  something  more  potent  still,  and  the  naked  rum 
throws  upon  his  back  that  champion  whose  heels  the  sweetened 
liquor  only  served  to  trip. 

Four  or  five  stout  fellows  have  consented  to  meet  Sproulls  and 
his  friend  in  good  fellowship.  The  steaks  and  oysters  smoked 
from  separate  dishes.  The  foaming  liquors,  hot  and  cold,  went 
freely  round.  Sam  Fowler  sat  as  sovereign,  well  satisfied.  He 
had  impudence,  and  a  ruffian-like  humor ;  was  fond  of  horse-play ; 
and  dealt  out  the  most  brutal  oaths,  as  boys  fling  cherry-stones 
about.  The  demureness  of  his  companions,  at  first,  seemed  to 
him  the  natural  tribute  of  inexperience  and  inferior  spirits  to  his 
own  superiority.  Every  brute  has  his  vanity.  He  found  this 
sort  of  tribute  grateful. 

"  You  '11  git  bolder,  fellows,  when  you  've  ploughed  the  seas  for 


THE   TIGER   BREAKS   THE   TRAP.  447 

twenty-five  years ;  when  you  've  tasted  the  salt  of  a  lee  shore ; 
when  you  Ve  split  every  sail  in  a  '  norther ;'  and  been  so  far  up 
in  the  wind's  eye,  that  you  'd  only  got  to  stretch  out  your  hand 
to  take  the  man  in  the  moon  by  the  beard  !  A  week's  maroon, 
now,  would  make  men  of  you  all.  A  desarted  island,  without  a 
tree  or  shrub,  and  nothin'  but  a  pocketful  of  biscuit,  a  gun  without 
a  lock,  and  no  way  to  git  your  grub  but  by  listening  when  a  turtle 
grunts,  as  she's  a-marchin'  up  the  sands  to  drop  her  eggs  !  That's 
the  sort  of  schooling  to  take  the  pip  off  a  man-chicken's  tongue ! 
A  week  of  that  sort  of  idication,  my  lads,  would  make  something 
of  you  all,  and  bring  out  the  pluck.  It's  life  you  wants ;  and  ef 
you  've  the  heart  to  1'arn,  say  so,  fellows,  and  ship  with  me,  out 
ward  bound  and  return  v'yage,  with  shares  of  eights  upon  the 
venture.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

The  cue  was  to  humor  the  ruffian. 

"  Well,"  said  one,  and  then  another.  "  It 's  monstrous  poor 
sort  of  life  that  we  lives  here  —  hardly  gits  our  grub,  and  more 
salt  than  sugar  in  it.  I'm  clear  for  any  venture  that'll  give  us 
a  chance  at  a  better  sort  of  life." 

"  Shill  have  ft,  my  lads.  I  '11  be  ready  for  you.  You  '11  have 
to  sign  articles,  lads  —  not  much  —  only  to  have  an  understandin' 
of  the  tarms,  and  the  rest 's  easy,  and  the  money  sure.  I've  known 
three  hundred  pounds  starling  per  man,  out  of  a  single  v'yage  of 
two  months.  Bales  always  ready  for  our  cargo,  and  markets  right 
and  left,  east,  west,  north,  south  —  everywhere,  jest  like  here  in 
Charlestoun,  where  the  folks  sing  night  and  day,  even  when  they  're 

a-prayin'. 

"  '  Come  along,  ye  jolly  brothers, 

That  do  range  the  Spanish  main ! 
Bring  us  in  the  precious  galleons, 

With  their  gold  and  silver  grain : 
Ye  've  brought  us  treasure  oft  before, 

So  cut  and  come  again  !' 

"But  —  fellows!  am  I  to  do  all  the  drinkin'?  I  say  drink 
though  it  blows  a  harricane  !  You  '11  never  be  up  to  a  spankin 
breeze  ef  you  don't  1'arn  the  uses  of  a  bottle.  Grog's  the  whole 
secret  of  all  that 's  good  and  lucky  :  grog 's  courage  ;  grog 's  good 
luck ;  grog 's  sense  and  sperit ;  grog  makes  the  cargo,  and  grog 
knows  how  to  spend  it.  Drink,  I  say !  By  the  holy  pipers,  I'll 
lay  my  cutlash  over  the  first  nose  that  I  see  holdin'  off  from  the 


448  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

punch-bowl!  Up  with  it,  fellows  —  down  with  it  —  let's  hear  it 
give  an  honest  guggle  as  it  goes  down  a  wide  swallow !" 

Suppose,  in  this  speech,  the  action  suited  to  the  word.  The 
burly  ruffian  actually  stood  up,  tankard  in  one  hand  and  naked 
cutlass  in  the  other ;  and,  while  quaffing  the  contents  of  the  cup, 
he  flourished  the  weapon  over  the  heads  of  his  companions. 

Now,  Sproulls's  assistants,  though  not  exactly  of  the  class  of 
Dogberrys,  were  yet  very  far  from  being  familiar  with  the  sharp, 
prompt  practice  of  our  ancient  buccaneer ;  and  their  heads  shyed, 
from  side  to  side,  as  the  gleaming  cutlass  waved  to  and  fro.  They 
eagerly  filled  their  cups  and  swallowed. 

"  No  heeltaps,  you  milksops  !  Drink  deep  as  death  and  d — na 
tion  !  I'm  not  goin'  to  palaver  over  punch.  Drink,  I  say!  — 
swallow  like  a  suckfish  —  swallow,  and  be  gentlemen-rovers,  fit 
for  the  high-seas,  and  a  ready  market !  Ef  you  don't,  I  '11  make 
a  short  swipe  of  you !  Ef  you  does,  I  '11  know  you  to  be  men 
of  good,  warm  blood  —  able  to  write  your  names  under  a  '  Jolly 
Roger!'" 

He  had  his  will  of  them ;  and  he  laughed  in  half  scorn,  half 
merriment,  to  see  the  avidity  with  which  they  shallowed  —  the 
alacrity  with  which  they  obeyed  him. 

"  That 's  goin'  it  honest !  I  like  a  free  drinker.  The  fellow 
that  skulks  his  liquor  ain't  honest.  I  say,  now,  write  down  yer 
names  on  that  paper !  You  're  entered  for  a  cruise." 

And  he  cast  down  a  paper  before  them.  The  fellows  looked 
blank  —  looked  at  one  another.  The  task  now  put  before  them 
seemed  to  promise  more  peril  than  the  punch. 

"What's  this  for?"  said  one. 

"  What 's  that  to  you,  blast  me  !     Sign  !" 

And  again  the  cutlass  was  flourished  over  the  heads  of  the 
party.  They  signed,  not  daring  to  stop  to  read  what  was  writ 
ten  —  signed  to  a  man !  And  the  old  pirate  coolly  gathered  up 
he  paper.,  and  pocketed  it  away,  as  if  it  had  been  a  deed  of  value  ; 
hough  he  was  now  evidently  too  drunk  to  reason  correctly  upon 
any  subject.  It  was  habit  and  instinct  that  governed  his  actions 

He  chuckled,  with  all  the  self-complacency  of  an  ancient  des 
pot,  when  he  found  them  so  submissive. 

"  That 's  it !  all  right !"  said  he  ;  "  you  're  bound  for  the  v'yage. 
No  backin'  out  now.  Sworn  to  the  Jolly  Roger.  But  it's  a  free 


THE   TIGER   BREAKS   THE   TRAP.  44(J 

life,  fellows  —  pleasure  all  the  time  !  Nothin'  but  fun,  and  fight- 
in',  and  plenty  of  liquor ;  and  lots  of  fine  gals  at  New  Providence 
and  all  along  the  keys.  It 's  a  glorious  life.  Fill  up,  now,  I  say, 
and  let 's  drink  to  the  Jolly  Roger !" 

They  filled !  he  filled !  the  cutlass  flourishing  in  fearful  prox 
imity  to  every  head,  and  Fowler  walking  to  and  fro,  as  he  spoke, 
with  the  air  of  a  commander  upon  the  quarter-deck,  ready  to 
board  the  enemy.  But,  as  they  carried  the  cups  to  their  mouths, 
he  stopped : — 

"  Where  's  that  blasted  son  of  a  yardstick  ?  where  's  Sproulls  ?" 

"  He  's  jest  gone  for  a  minute.     He  '11  be  back  soon." 

"  He 's  skulked  a  matter  of  five  glasses.  I  '11  take  the  d d 

fellows  ears  off,  close  to  his  top !  What 's  he,  that  he  should 
skulk  ?  Why  ain't  he  here,  I  say  ?  Who  's  here  to  answer  for 
him  ?  Does  I  come  to  visit  him,  and  he  sneak  off  and  leave  me 
to  take  care  of  myself!  Nobody  to  ax  rne  to  liquor !  I  'm  a  de 
cent  man,  and  can 't  ax  myself:  it 's  for  him  to  ax.  I  won't  drink 

ef  any  d d,  blasted  liquor,  when  the  right  owner  do  n't  ax  me. 

I  '11  shave  his  ears  off,  blast  me  !" 

The  desperado  fairly  overawed  the  proper  men  around  him. 
The  cutlass  again  flourished  about  in  terrible  closeness  to  their 
heads.  One  of  them,  more  bold  than  the  rest,  endeavored  to 
pacify  him.  He  said : — 

"  Sproulls  is  my  friend.  He 's  a  good  fellow.  Do  n't  mean 
anything  oncivil  —  would  n't  for  the  world.  He  said  he  had  to 
go.  Begged  me  to  do  the  purlite  ;  and  /  ax  you,  captain  —  /ax 
you,  in  his  name  —  take  a  pull  —  take  a  pull  with  me  !" 

"  D — n  his  name  !  Who 's  he  ?  I  '11  take  a  pull  with  you,  in 
your  own  name.  What 's  your  name  ?" 

u  Jim  Atkinson." 

"  Jim  Atkinson  ?  Ah  !  you  've  signed" — taking  out  and  trying 
to  examine  the  paper.  "  Well,  stand  up,  old  fellow ;  you  're  a 
man  of  size  ;  you  've  got  the  inches  !  I  '11  take  a  pull  with  you. 
Fill  up  all,  fellows.  A  pull  all  round  with  Jim  Atkinson.  Hur 
rah  for  the  Jolly  Roger !  Drink  that,  boys,  ef  you  wants  to  be 
blest." 

They  drank. 

"  I  've  got  the  benefits  !  I  must  be  off  now.  See  to  the  boat. 
See  to  the  lieutenant.  He 's  a  fool !  Footin'  it  with  women, 


450  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

when  he  ought  to  be  drivin'  along  the  coast,  and  down  for  the 
gulf !  But,  no  matter :  life 's  a  long  day.  So  long  as  the  liquor 
lasts,  and  there 's  good  feedin',  no  need  to  hurry.  But  you  're  all 
booked,  and  we  must  be  off  soon.  I  count  on  you  as  my  fellows. 
You  shall  have  a  glorious  swing  of  it.  Not  in  your  shoes,  you 
boobies  !  do  n't  think  that !  No  man  need  fear  the  gallows  who  's 
got  the  sense  to  die  a  wet  death.  We  '11  do  it  in  stockin'-feet ! 
Another  pull,  my  beauties,  and  then  I  'm  off !  I  've  eat  a'most 

too  many  of  them  d d  'ysters !     They  're  watery.     But  the 

punch  ain't !  Another  pull,  all  round,  and  hurrah  for  the  Jolly 
Roger !  You  '11  be  all  ready  at  mess-call !" 

And  every  hand  grasped  the  noggin,  though  possibly  none  but 
Fowler  emptied  the  vessel.  He  did  this  to  the  last  drop.  Then 
thrusting  his  cutlass  home,  he  strode  off  toward  the  door. 

"  I  '11  give  you  the  sign  when  it 's  time  to  go  aboard  ;  not  quite 
ready  yit.  Git  stores  in  the  locker ;  work  the  ship  round  first. 
You  shall  know  when  the  time  comes.  Hard  a-port,  I  say  !  Hey, 
there !  —  a  cup  !  One  more  cup ;  and  then,  a  free  sheet  and  a 
flowin'  sea!" 

It  was  with  some  disquiet  that  his  companions  beheld  him  pre 
pared  to  depart,  and  resolved  upon  it.  It  was  against  their  in 
structions  that  he  should  be  suffered  to  go.  Sproulls's  secret 
words  had  been  emphatic : — 

"  You  '11  have  no  trouble  with  him  so  long  as  the  liquor  lasts. 
He'll  stop  till  daylight.  Ply  him  fast,  Drink  with  him,  man  by 
man.  But  keep  him  till  I  get  back.  We  must  have  him  fast  by 
the  heels.  It 's  a  hundred  pounds  sterling  in  our  pockets ;  and 
every  man  shall  have  his  five  pounds,  remember  that !  I  '11  bring 
a  proper  officer,  and  we  can  fix  him  fast  when  I  get  back.  But 
should  he  offer  1o  go,  jump  upon  him,  all  of  you,  and  get  him 
down,  and  rope  him.  You  're  strong  enough,  each  of  you,  and 
there 's  four  of  you.  Keep  him,  fair  or  foul  —  see  that  you  keep 
him  till  I  get  back." 

The  instructions  seemed  quite  natural  and  easy  to  the  hearei 
when  first  delivered ;  but,  since  then,  their  humors  had  cooled. 
The  course  of  Fowler  had  been  so  decidedly  desperate,  that  what 
seemed  to  promise  so  feasibly  at  the  outset,  became  now  quite  a 
hazardous  measure.  So  far  from  taking  the  initiative,  in  keeping 
him  at  his  liquor,  he  had  rather  forced  it  upon  them  ;  and  his  fear- 


THE   TIGEE   BREAKS   THE   TRAP.  451 

ful  cutlass-flourishes  had  not  suffered  them  to  prevaricate  at  their 
punch.  They  could  not  play  him,  and  sham  their  own  drinking ; 
and  each  felt  that  his  potations  had  done  something  toward  dis 
turbing  his  own  equilibrium. 

Besides,  the  reckless  demeanor  of  the  ruffian  ;  his  physical  pro 
portions  ;  the  dexterity  with  which  he  flourished  his  weapon ;  and 
the  discovery  which  they  made  of  the  mahogany-butts  of  pistols 
protruding  from  his  breast — all  combined  to  beget  an  extreme 
degree  of  prudence  on  the  part  of  these  valiant  citizens,  which  did 
not  argue  any  great  promptitude,  should  it  become  necessary  for 
them  to  jump  upon  him,  as  one  man,  and  lay  him  out  like  a  turtle, 
on  his  bacfc. 

Still,  something  must  be  done.  He  was  evidently  resolved  on 
his  departure ;  and  the  fellow  who  had  played  spokesman  before, 
now  taking  the  parole,  as  if  warmed  by  his  beverages  to  eloquence, 
began  his  work  as  insidiously  as  he  could. 

"  Sorry,  captain,  that  Sproulls  hain't  got  back  time  enough  to 
do  his  honest  drinkin'  with  you — " 

"  D — n  Sproulls,  for  a  sneak  !" 

"  So  say  I,  too !  D — n  Sproulls  !  But  so  long  as  his  liquor 
lasts,  I  'm  for  it.  So,  what  say  you,  boys,  to  a  pull  all  round  ?  I 
say,  captain,  this  punch  is  glorious,  and  there's  a  smart  chance  in 
the  bowl  yet."  ^ 

"  D — n  punch  !  The  sweet's  too  snakish.  Give  me  the  naked 
Jamaica !" 

The  rum  was  placed  before  him  —  a  huge,  square,  black  bottle, 
containing  a  gallon.  The  pirate  filled,  taking  his  rum  this  time 
in  puris  naturalibus.  But  the  rest  began  filling  from  the  punch- 
b&wl. 

"  H-ll !"  he  cried  ;  "  am  I  to  take  the  naked  creetur,  and  you 
be  swizzin'  out  of  the  sweetened  sarpent  ?  And  you  wants  to  sail 
under  the  '  Jolly  Roger/  too  !  Blast  my  peepers,  if  they  shall 

look  on  and  see  sich  infarnal  hypocrisy !  '  There 's  for  your  d d 

wash !" 

And,  with  a  tremendous  sweep  of  the  arm,  he  hurled  the  punch 
bowl  from  the  table,  sending  the  beverage  in  every  direction,  and 
shattering  the  vessel  into  a  thousand  pieces. 

u  The  naked  sinner,  fellows  !  Kiss  the  black  jug,  and  show  that 
you've  got  the  strength  for  a  fair  wrestle  with  the  naked  sperit !" 


452  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

The  demonstration  was  sufficient,  and  they  drank  with  him. 
The  drunken  despot  would  not  allow  them  to  water  the  liquor ; 
they  must  take  it  raw.  Luckily  for  them,  his  eyes  were  quite 
too  humid  to  suffer  him  to  see  whether  they  filled  to  the  brim  or 
not  The  former  spokesman,  in  still  more  subdued  accents,  though 
affecting  a  frank  good-humor  which  he  did  not  feel,  cried  out  — 

"  That's  right !  The  sweetened  liquor  don't  do  after  the  short 
hours  come  on.  Here's  to  the  good  ship,  captain,  and  a  glorious 
cruise,  a  riih  cargo,  and  a  ready  market !" 

"  Good  !"  was  the  answer,  with  a  gruff  complacency.  "  But 
what  did  you  say  about  the  short  hours  ?  How  late  do  you  call 
it,  fellows  ?" 

"  Oh  !  it 's  not  late :  somewhere  'twixt  twelve  and  one." 

"  Twelve  and  one  !     I  must  be  off —  must  see  to  that  d 

peacock !  We  shall  soon  be  on  the  ebb  of  tide.  Must  be  off.  Well, 
fellows,  you  shall  hear  my  signal  soon.  Keep  your  ears  on  the 
stretch,  and  your  fingers  and  feet  free.  You  're  good  fellows.  I 
see  ;  know  when  rum  ought  to  be  taken  naked  ;  1'arn  you,  ef  you 
don't  know.  And  so,  the  devil's  blessings  upon  you,  my  kittens  ! 
I  '11  come  for  you  before  he  does,  and  we  '11  both  be  sartain !" 

And,  without  waiting  any  answer,  he  strode  to  the  door.  They 
all  rose,  and  approached  him.  The  spokesman  on  previous  occa 
sions,  Atkinson,  gave  the  rest  the  winlfr  He  had  contrived  to 
whisper  them  — 

"  When  you  see  us  shakin'  hands,  then  jump  upon  him,  all  at 
once,  and  bring  him  down  !" 

But  Fowler  had  reached  the  door  before  Jim  Atkinson  could 
reach  him.  He  found  it  closed,  and  locked  on  the  outside  !  So 
slyly  had  Sproulls  done  this,  that  it  had  passed  unnoticed  by  all 
the  party.  The  effect  upon  Fowler  was  to  endow  the  ruffian  with 
all  his  resolution,  and  some  of  his  habitual  readiness  and  decision. 
In  an  instant  the  effects  of  the  liquor  seemed  to  disappear.  He 
confronted  the  party,  his  back  to  the  door,  which  opened  on  th 
outside,  and  drew  a  brace  of  pistols  from  his  bosom. 

"  What  bloody  lubber  has  done  this  ?" 

"  Done  what,  captain  ?"  said  Atkinson,  approaching. 

"Done  what!  Do  you  ask,  you  blackguard?  Stand  off,  or 
I  '11  feed  you  on  bullets  which  shall  last  you  to  the  grave !" 

And  he  cocked  his  pistols.     Atkinson  stopped  short,  his  hand 


THE   TIGER   BREAKS   THE   TRAP.  453 

extended  as  for  leave-taking.  His  comrades,  meanwhile,  were 
slowly  gliding  round  the  table,  like  himself  irresolute.  They  all 
had  weapons,  but  produced  none. 

"  Caught  in  a  trap  !  and  of  your  settin',  you  d d  fresh-water 

sneaks !  You  would  harness  a  shark  with  spider-webs,  would 
you !" 

And,  keeping  his  eyes  steadily  upon  them,  and  his  pistols  ex 
tended  with  deliberate  aim,  he  lifted  his  foot  and  drove  it  behind 
him,  with  all  his  force,  against  the  door.  The  slight  fabric  yielded 
at  the  first  blow,  and  was  sent  free  from  bolt  and  hinges.  The 
way  was  clear. 

"  Now  move  one  step  toward  me,  and  I  '11  plaster  the  wall  with 
your  bloody  brains !  Ho  !  ho  !  ho !  —  a  pretty  trap  !  Say  to 
Sproulls,  I've  taken  his  measure:  I'll  cut  out  his  garmints  for 
him  !  I'll  paint  'em  red,  do  you  hear  !  I'll  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  on  him,  so  deep,  that  the  priest  won't  have  anything  to  do ! 
And  all  that  won't  save  him.  I'll — oh,  blast  him!  He  sha'n't 
know  what  hurts  him  !" 

And  he  strode  forth  into  the  highway,  pistols  in  hand,  coolly 
resolute,  steady  with  the  sobriety  of  desperation  ;  and  none  of  the 
party  dared  to  follow  him.  They  looked  at  one  another  with 
somewhat  of  the  philosophy  of  Dogberry : — 

"  Take  no  note  of  him.  ^  Let  him  go,  and  thank  God  you  are 
rid  of  a  knave." 

Atkinson  said,  apologetically : — 

"  I  would  have  taken  hold  of  him,  thougn  I  died  for  it ;  but  I've 
got  a  wife  and  children.  But  why  did  n't  you  all  jump  upon  him, 
fellows,  when  you  seed  me  offer  him  my  hand  ?" 

"  But  you  was  to  take  his  hand,  you  know,  and  then  we  was  to 
jump  on  him.  That  was  what  you  told  us." 

"  But  when  you  seed  that  he  wouldn't  shake  hands?' 

"  Then  we  waited  to  see  what  you  would  do.  You  was  nearest 
to  him." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  git  up  ?  Ef  you  had  only  pressed  about 
him,  I  'd  ha'  jumped  on  him  anyhow." 

"And  ef  you  'd  ha'  jumped  on  him,  we'd  been  up  fast  enough." 

"  And  you  wanted  me  to  face  his  two  pistols  by  myself,  did 
you  ?  and  I  with  a  wife  and  three  young  children  !" 

"And  ain't  my  life  as  dear  to  me  as  your'n,  no  matter  ef  you 


454  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

had  fifty  wives  and  children  ?  And  when  I  consider  t  was  only  a 
poor  five  pounds  that  we  was  to  git,  after  all,  I  don't  see  the  sense 
of  runnin'  ag'in  a  brace  of  bullets  from  the  biggest-mouthed  pis 
tols  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  !" 

"They  were  monstratious  big,"  said  a  third  party.  "They 
looked  like  young  cannon.  A  bullet  from  them  muzzles  would 
take  off  a  man's  head  clean !" 

"  Well,"  responded  Atkinson,  "  it 's  agreed  we  all  did  our  best 
We  tried  all  we  could  to  stop  him.  We  made  him  drunk  —  1 
thought  we  had  him  dead  drunk.  You  seed  how  he  reeled  al  out 
when  he  first  got  up  from  the  table !" 

"  But,  Lord,  how  sudden  he  got  quite  sober,  soon  as  he  found 
the  door  was  locked  !" 

"  He  's  a  most  powerful  villain  ;  he  'd  be  a  match  for  any  five 
men  I  ever  seed.  I  thank  God  we  're  well  rid  of  him,  and  no  life 
lost!  I  don't  feel  like  takin'  up  and  seein'  hung  an  honest  rover 
that  we  've  been  dealin'  with  so  long.  I  'm  glad  he 's  off,  and  we 
have  n't  had  the  sheddin'  of  his  blood." 

"  And  he  the  sheddin'  of  your  'n,  Bonney." 

"  Well,  I  consent !  I  do  n't  want  to  burrow  in  a  dog's  hole  be 
fore  the  Lord  calls  me  !" 

And  the  party  soon  persuaded  themselves  that  their  proceed 
ings  had  been  marked  equally  by  couragg  and  judgment,  and  would 
have  been  quite  successful  but  for  the  unexpected  and  brutal  ob 
stinacy  of  Fowler,  who  in  no  degree  would  contribute  to  the  tri 
umph  of  their  operations. 

They  had  logically  reached  this  result,  when  Sproulls  reap 
peared,  bringing  with  him  another  party.  His  eye  beheld  the 
wreck  of  the  door ;  and,  as  he  failed  to  see  Fowler,  he  at  once 
conjectured  the  failure  of  his  scheme.  He  listened  impatiently  to 
the  narrative  of  Atkinson,  but  did  not  quite  agree  with  him  in  his 
estimate  of  the  courage  and  conduct  they  had  shown. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  follow  him  and  see  where  he  burrows  now  ?' 

"  Follow  six  pistols,  with  mouths  as  big  as  a  blunderbuss,  and 
etuffed  to  the  muzzle  with  bullets  !" 

"  We  must  be  after  him,"  said  Sproulls  to  his  companion,  "  and 
see  if  we  can't  do  what  these  fellows  failed  in." 

"  No !"  replied  the  other  ;  "  we  have  n't  time.  We  Ve  to  see 
after  higher  game :  we  must  take  care  and  not  lose  both." 


THE   TIGER   BREAKS   THE   TRAP.  455 

"  You  're  right !  Look  you,  boys,  you  've  lost  a  matter  of  twenty 
pounds  apiece,  lettin*  the  pirate  git  off!" 

"  You  only  said  five  apiece ;  and  was  I  to  risk  my  life  for  a 
poor,  pitiful  five  pounds,  and  I  have  a  wife  and  three  children 
lookin'  to  me  for  all  they  git  ?" 

"  Never  mind  that,  my  good  fellows,"  said  the  stranger ;  "  go 
with  us  now,  and  see  that  you  do  better !  I  '11  lead  you,  and  not 
ask  any  of  you  to  face  a  danger  that  I  'm  not  willing  to  face  the 
first  We  've  got  to  make  another  capture  ;  and  if  we  succeed,  and 
he 's  the  person  we  look  for,  you  shall  have  your  twenty  pounds 
apiece  yet !  You  know  me,  I  think,  and  know  that  I  'm  not  going 
to  ask  you  to  do  that  which  I  won't  attempt  myself." 

They  at  once  expressed  their  alacrity.  They  knew  the  speaker. 
He  had,  even  then,  quite  a  local  celebrity ;  and  was  destined  to 
make  himself  still  more  notorious  in  after-days,  in  the  colonial 
regime  of  Carolina.  He  spoke  with  a  decided  Irish  accent;  was 
a  fine-looking,  stalwart  fellow,  in  a  sort  of  undress  uniform  ;  had 
rich,  rosy  cheeks,  fair  complexion,  blue  eyes  ;  and  carried  himself 
like  a  knight  of  chivalry.  This  was  Florence  O'Sullivan,  then  in 
command  of  the  two-gun  battery,  on  the  southwest  point  of  the 
town  ;  afterward  in  command  of  the  first  palmetto  battery,  or  log- 
castle,  on  Sullivan's  island,  which  takes  its  name  from  this  very 
personage. 

He  led  the  way,  and  all  the  party  followed  him  into  the  street. 

NOTE. — We  have  suffered  our  old  pirate  to  deliver  himself  freely  in  his 
habitually  brutal  language  ;  preferring  that  he  should  revolt  the  instincts  of 
the  young,  whose  more  elegant  forms  of  speech,  in  the  dialect  of  the  flibustier, 
might  be  apt  to  persuade.  It  is  better,  perhaps,  that  we  should  suffer  bru 
tality  to  disgust  the  tastes  —  even  as  the  Spartans  exhibited  their  slaves  when 
in  a  state  of  drunkenness  —  than,  by  a  solicitous  forbearance  to  offend  the 
tastes,  to  endanger  the  morals.  It  is  the  just  objection  to  many  of  our  ro 
mancers  and  poets,  that  they  drew  the  portraits  of  their  corsairs  and  brigands 
in  such  artful  colors  (suppressing  all  that  might  offend  the  tastes)  as  to  con 
vert  the  criminal  into  the  hero,  and,  by  appealing  to  the  fancies  and  mere 
instincts,  succeeded  too  surely  in  corrupting  the  soul.  Having  thus  far  suf 
fered  our  ruffian  to  show  himself  in  his  true  colors,  wo  shall  clap  a  stopper  on 
him  hereafter. 


456  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KTAWAH. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

A    BLOODY    STRUGGLE. 

"  A  bloody  deed,  and  desperately  despatched  I" 

SHAKESPEARE. 

WHEN  Sam  Fowler  left  the  house  of  Sproulls,  his  first  notion 
was,  to  find  his  way  to  the  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson, 
and  endeavor  to  draw  Molyneaux  forth.  The  fellow  had  become 
doubtful  of  his  securities,  suspicious  of  the  precinct,  and  appre 
hensive  for  his  companion.  But  he  had  no  guide ;  felt  his  legs 
beginning  to  be  more  and  more  unsteady,  as  he  inhaled  the  cool, 
fresh  air  of  the  morning ;  and,  upon  second  thought,  he  directed 
his  steps  toward  the  lagune  in  which  the  boat  had  been  hidden. 
His  selfishness  overcame  his  good-fellowship. 

"  This  chap  Molyneaux,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  is  no  great 
shakes.  We  can  do  without  him.  Why  should  n't  I  have  the 
ship  to  myself?  He's  a  fool  too,  not  thoroughbred,  and  will  be 
always  after  some  fol-de-rol  or  other,  sp'ilin'  a  profitable  v'yage  I 
We  can  do  without  him.  Let  him  git  out  of  the  scrape  as  he  can. 
I  '11  wait  for  him  in  the  boat.  Ef  he  comes,  we  're  no  worse  off 
than  before.  He  can  be  captain  of  the  ship.  I'll  be  his  cap 
tain  ;  and  ef  he  kicks,  we  can  send  him  over  the  side  to  feed  the 
sharks !" 

Such  was  his  policy  and  moral. 

He  took  his  way  to  the  lagune,  and  found  it. 

He  gave  the  signal.  The  boat  shot  from  her  sheltering  myr 
tles,  and  was  run  up  to  the  shore.  Two  silent  figures  managed 
her. 

"  Here  away,  fellows  —  up  to  that  'yster-bed !  No  need  to 
muddy  one's  feet !" 

The  boat  obeyed  him. 


A    BLOODY   STRUGGLE.  457 

He  stepped  in  with  a  yawing,  unsteady  motion,  his  brain  feel 
ing  more  than  ever  the  potations  he  had  drunken. 

"  Put  her  out,  and  row  for  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  fellows.  We 
shall  be  safer  there,  and  can  hear  the  lieutenant's  signal  when  he 
comes  upon  the  p'int.  I  'm  thirsty  as  d — nation  !" 

He  was  obeyed  in  silence. 

"  What  have  you  seen,  boys  ?  Any  strange  sail  ?  —  anybody 
here  ?" 

"  None,  sir." 

"None?  Well,  that's  good!  They  haven't  found  us  out, 
then  !  But  they  've  got  bloody  lights  out.  There 's  rats  abroad. 
I  've  had  a  narrow  escape.  Had  me  on  the  hip.  Got  ropes 

stretched.     The  d d  punch  !     Them  sweet  liquors  have  snared 

many  a  true  man.     Drink  no  more  of  'em  !     The  naked  rum  for 
me!" 

And  he  laid  himself  back  in  the  stern. 

"  How  's  tide,  boys  ?" 

"  Have  the  ebb  soon,  sir." 

"  Ay,  I  know'd  it.  'Twixt  twelve  and  one,  they  said.  Two 
now.  Ebb  at  three.  D — n  the  punch !  Wish  we  were  safe  all, 
stowed  away  in  our  bunks !" 

A  deep  silence  followed.  The  rowers  continued  to  pull  out, 
They  were  nearly  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek.  The  Ashley  was 
rolling  broad,  clear,  and  fresh,  in  the  growing  moonlight.  Fow 
ler  seemed  to  sleep.  One  of  the  rowers  muttered  to  the  other  — 

"  He  sleeps !" 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Well,  away !  avast,  there !  What  do  you  pipe  ?"  demanded 
the  supposed  sleeper. 

"  Nothin',  sir !" 

"  Nothin'  be  d d !    Talk  out !    Why  do  n't  you  talk  ?   What 

have  you  got  to  say  ?" 
*•"  Nothin',  sir !" 

"  I  say  nothin'  be  d— — d  !  Say  somelhin' !  You,  Byrd,  have 
talk  enough  when  the  humor  suits  you.  Have  you  no  liquor  ?" 

"  Not  a  drop,  sir." 

"  D d  bad  lookout !     Wish  I  had  brought  the  black  junk, 

Famous  Jamaica.     Feel  hot  and  thirsty  as  h-11 !     Ought  to  have 

cut  one  of  them  d d  throats  !     Been  easier  for  it.     The  sneak- 

20 


458  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

in'  lubbers  I  Sich  a  trap  for  a  strong  man  !  But  I  '11  smoke  'era 

yet !  I  '11  .smoke  the  d d  town,  soon  as  I  git  fairly  on  the 

quarter-deck  !  smoke  the  rats  out  of  their  holes  !  Sich  a  trap  ! 
Sproulls  !  Jim  —  Jim  Atkinson  !  Got  'em  all  down  in  the  ship's 
articles.  Hang  'em  for  traitors  —  hang  'em  in  their  shoes  —  the 
d d  fresh-water  lubbers  !" 

Here  his  eloquence  was  interrupted  by  a  fit  of  hiccoughing, 
broken  with  muttered  ejaculations  of  the  same  type  with  the  pre 
ceding  ;  the  sample  is  sufficient.  He  finally  gave  up  the  effort  to 
speak,  and  again  subsided,  with  head  upon  the  side  of  the  boat. 
He  was  silent.  The  oarsmen  paused  in  the  stroke,  and  the  oars 
were  resting  on  the  sides.  Fowler  seemed  to  sleep.  He  was 
quiet ;  the  hiccoughs  were  gone. 

"  He  sleeps  now,"  whispered  one  rower  to  the  other. 

"  Not  yet." 

"  But  he 's  so  drunk,  that  it  will  be  quite  as  easy." 

"  Hardly  !  We  need  risk  nothin'.  There 's  time  enough  yet 
for  an  hour." 

The  supposed  sleeper  rose  up : — 

"  Why  the  h-11  do  n't  you  pull  ?" 

"  We  're  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  sir !" 

"  What  of  that  ?     Pull  out,  I  say  !" 

"  Into  the  river,  sir  1" 

"Yes  — h-11!     To  be  sure!" 

"  But  the  lieutenant,  sir  ! — " 

"  D n  the  lieutenant !  I  'm  myself  lieutenant.  Shall  we 

stay  for  him  all  night,  locked  up  in  a  d d  cabin  with  five  fel 
lows  at  one's  throat  ?  Pull  out,  and  the  lieutenant  be  d d ! 

Ef  he  will  burn  daylight,  shakin'  his  d d  ridiculous  legs  at  a 

fandango,  when  he  ought  to  be  breezin'  it  at  ten  knots  straight 
for  the  gulf,  he  may  stay  for  ever !  Pull  out,  fellows,  and  lay  us 
aboard  the  Happy-go-Lucky  before  the  dawn !" 

They  obeyed  him,  and  he  again  relapsed  into  silence.  The 
rowers  rested  on  their  oars.  The  boat  lay  rocking  to  and  fro, 
steadied  in  the  one  spot  only  by  an  occasional  dip  of  the  oar  from 
one  of  the  parties.  Fowler  showed  himself  restless,  and,  starting 
up,  exclaimed : — 

"'Look  you,  fellows,  why  don't  you  say  somethin' ?  and  — 
bello !  why  do  you  stop  the  boat  ?  Why  do  n't  you  pull  ?  What 


A    BLOODY    STRUGGLE.  459 

do  you  mean  by  not  talkin'  ?    What 's  come  over  you  ?    Where's 
your  report  ?" 

The  rowers  were  silent  and  motionless. 

Fowler  sat  up,  and  stared  at  them.  His  brain  was  foggy,  but 
not  so  much  befogged  but  that  something  mysterious  in  their  con 
duct  made  itself  felt. 

"  Look  you,  Byrd  !  —  talk,  I  say  !" 

And  the  speech  was  rounded  by  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"  Talk,  I  say  !    Let  me  fiear  somethin'  I  can  understand.    Talk, 

though  you  talk  to  the  fishes  only  !     Ef  you  do  n't,  by you 

shall  go  to  feed  'em  !" 

Both  rowers  answered  him. 
"Heh!     Who's  that?" 
There  was  something  strange  in  the  voice. 
"  I  say,  fellows,  who  's  that  spoke  ?     Was  it  Byrd,  or  —  or  — 
Cromley?" 

"  Cromley,  sir." 

"  A  d d  strange  croak  for  Cromley  !      Got  a  frog  in  your 

throat,  fellow.     I  must  look  for  it." 

And,  staggering  up,  he  strode  forward  and  took  the  first  oars 
man  by  the  shoulder.  The  light  of  the  moon,  now  one  third  of 
her  course  in  heaven,  was  sufficient  for  the  inspection,  which,  as 
the  pirate  made  it,  he  roared  out : — 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  h-11  and  brimstone  !     More  traps  !  —  more  sarcum- 

ventions !     The  d d  punch !     But  I  ain't  on  my  beam-ends 

yet.  You  bloody  sarpents  !  You  think  you  've  got  me,  do  you  ! 
But,  thunder  and  blazes,  I  'm  not  to  be  laid  by  the  heels  by  sieh 
chaps  as  you !" 

He  had  discovered  Jack  Belcher  in  the  oarsman  whom  he  had 
taken  for  Byrd.  This  discovery  revealed  his  danger.  He  knew 
the  fidelity  of  Belcher  to  Calvert ;  felt,  from  his  presence,  in  the 
place  of  the  hands  he  had  left  in  the  boat,  that  his  treachery  was 
known. 

His  prompt  action  kept  pace  with  his  words.  With  the  hand 
which  grasped  the  collar  of  Belcher,  he  pressed  him  over  upon 
the  thwarts,  while  with  the  other  hand  he  fumbled  at  his  pistols. 

The  crisis  was  come.  Belcher  felt  that  he  had  to  deal  with 
one  who  was  desperate,  and  almost  as  vigorous  as  desperate. 
Danger  and  strife  had  the  effect  to  restore  him,  in  some  degree, 


460  THE    CASSJQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

to  sobriety,  and  so  to  a  corresponding  increase  of  strength.  It 
was  necessary  for  the  assailed  party  to  make  powerful  exertions. 
It  was  not  easy  to  do  so  in  his  situation.  Not  expecting  assault 
from  the  drunken  man,  he  had  kept  his  seat  on  his  approach ; 
and,  as  the  truth  dawned  on  the  mind  of  Fowler,  the  outlaw  had 
incontinently  thrown  himself  upon  the  oarsman,  bearing  him  down 
backward  to  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  from  which  he  was  only 
saved  by  the  lap  of  his  companion.  That  companion  was  no  less 
a  person  than  the  old  salt,  Franks  ;  Calvert  having  found  it  neces 
sary,  in  the  present  complication  of  his  affairs,  to  put  all  his  per 
sonnel  into  requisition.  We  may  here  state  that  the  orders  of 
our  rover  to  his  two  subordinates  were,  to  secure  the  person  of 
Fowler  —  not  to  hurt  him  —  to  fetter  him  effectually;  and,  for 
this  purpose,  the  iron  handcuffs  were  provided,  and  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat. 

Caught  suddenly,  grasped  firmly,  and  by  the  still  vigorous 
frame  of  the  old  pirate,  Belcher  was  overborne  for  the  moment. 
Dropping  his  oar,  his  only  resource  was  to  throw  his  arms  about 
the  neck  of  the  ruffian  and  drag  him  down  with  him.  Thus  they 
rolled  together  —  struggled  and  strove  —  with  rapid  movements, 
which,  from  their  confined  and  constrained  position,  were  neces 
sarily  awkward  ones.  Both  felt  that  the  struggle  was  for  life. 
Belcher's  aim  was,  to  hoist  his  assailant  over  the  boat's  side. 
This  he  might  nave  done,  could  he  have  obtained  the  upper  posi 
tion  ;  but  Fowler  was  too  heavy  of  build,  still  too  strong,  and  had 
all  the  advantage  of  the  gripe.  Franks,  sitting  at  the  forehand- 
oar,  could  take  no  hold ;  Belcher's  position  having  been  between 
him  and  that  of  the  pirate.  But  the  old  sea-dog  watched  his 
chances,  seeming  altogether  quiescent  during  the  struggle. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Belcher  strove  to  throw  off  his  assailant ; 
fitill  more  vain,  with  both  hands  needed  to  keep  himself  uppermost, 
that  Fowler  fumbled,  at  moments,  for  his  pistols  or  knife.  And 
the  strife  thus  continued  ;  few  words  being  spoken  by  either  party, 
and  Fowler  only  belching  forth  an  occasional  oath,  as  he  felt  him 
self  baffled  in  his  effort. 

But  Belcher  was  beginning  to  suffer.  Hi*  enemy  had  him  by 
the  throat  with  one  hand,  his  head  being  borne  below  the  level 
of  his  body.  The  weight  of  his  heavy  assailant  was  stretched 
upon  him.  His  breathing  was  difficult.  As  yet.  Fowler  showed 


A    BLOODY    STRUGGLE.  461 

no  signs  of  suffering.  He  was  working  one  hand  with  some  free 
dom.  Franks  watched  and  listened.  Suddenly  the  click  of  a 
pistol  was  heard,  and  a  moment  afterward  the  fire.  Belcher 
made  a  violent  effort  and  threw  off  his  assailant.  He  was,  hap 
pily,  uninjured.  The  bullet  went  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  just 
grazing  his  side.  Fowler,  thrown  off,  lay  beside  his  antagonist, 
who  contrived  to  cast  a  leg  over  him  and  pinion  his  lower  limbs. 
Then,  as  the  hat  of  the  outlaw  fell  off,  and  he  lifted  his  head,  old 
Franks  seized  him  by  his  hair,  which  was  long,  and  plaited  into 
"  pig-tails." 

"  All  right  now !"  quoth  the  old  salt,  as  he  dragged  down  the 
uplifted  head  of  the  pirate.  But  the  hands  of  the  latter  were 
free.  He  struck  right  and  left  with  the  empty  pistol,  inflicting 
some  heavy  blows ;  but  he  was  evidently  growing  weaker.  He 
felt  this ;  and,  dropping  the  pistol,  stuck  his  hand  into  his  belt, 
seeking  another. 

Belcher  was  too  quick  for  him,  and  now  buckled,  with  all  his 
weight,  close  to  his  body,  even  as  Fowler  had  succeeded  previ 
ously  in  keeping  him  down.  For  a  moment  the  ruffian  lay  quiet, 
but  it  was  only  for  a  temporary  respite  from  exertion,  and  the 
regaining  of  his  strength  ;  and  while  his  two  assailants  were  taking 
advantage  of  the  pause  to  recover  breath,  he  began  a  series  of  new 
and  most  desperate  exertions. 

"  We  shall  have  to  kill  him,"  said  Franks.  "  There's  no  hitch 
ing  him !" 

"  Kill  him !  and  why  not,"  muttered  Belcher,  "  as  soon  kill  him 
as  any  wolf  that  runs  ?" 

"  Kill !"  roared  Fowler ;  and  the  conflict  was  renewed  with  in 
creasing  vigor.  Then  Belcher,  with  clenched  teeth,  fell  upon 
him  with  all  his  might.  Fowler  half  righted  himself,  sitting  fairly 
up  in  the  grasp  of  the  enemy.  It  was  a  final  and  exhausting 
effort.  Belcher,  in  another  moment,  succeeded  in  pressing  his 
head  over  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  which  by  this  time  had  drifted 
into  the  middle  of  the  river. 

"  Help,  Franks,"  quoth  he,  "  while  I  pitch  him  over !" 

"  Pitch  him  over,"  said  Franks,  "  while  there 's  so  much  life  in 
Kim  ?  He  '11  sink  better  after  this  ! — " 

And,  with  the  iron  handcuffs,  which  he  had  caught  up  from  the 
of  the  boat,  he  smote  the  naked  head  of  the  pirate,  as  it 


462  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

lay  over  the  side  —  one,  two,  three,  terrible  blows  —  under  which 
you  could  hear  the  crunching  of  the  skull ;  while  a  horrid  shriek 
went  up  from  the  victim.  One  violent,  spasmodic  convulsion  of 
the  whole  frame,  and  his  death-agony  was  over ;  and  even  while 
he  was  writhing  in  the  muscular  spasms,  Belcher  seized  him  bodily, 
and  flung  him  over  into  the  river. 

Then  the  two  survivors  drew  a  long  breath,  and  sat  gazing  at 
each  other  in  deep  silence.  They  both  felt  all  the  horrors  of  the 
scene.  They  were  both  exhausted.  Franks  was  the  first  to  catch 
up  his  oar,  and  motion  to  his  companion  to  do  likewise. 

"  Throw  these  handcuffs  overboard,"  said  Belcher,  "  and  wash 
the  side  of  the  boat." 

"  We  had  to  do  it !"  responded  Franks,  apologetically. 

"  Yes,  it  was  him  or  us!  'Twas  life  or  death  between  us 
Could  n't  be  helped ;  the  fellow  was  desperate  !  And  better  so, 
for  we  could  n't  have  kept  him.  What  could  the  captain  do  with 
him  ?" 

"  'T  was  a  maroon  shore  he  meant  for  him,  I  reckon.  But  he 
might  have  got  off  from  that,  and  somebody  would  have  had,  at 
last,  to  cut  his  throat ;  for  he  was  past  cure.  And,  let  to  live,  who 
knows  how  many  murders  he  would  have  done !" 

"  Yes,  it 's  best  so  !" 

"  Yet,  I  'd  rather  it  had  n't  been  my  old  hands  to  do  it.  I  was 
prayin'  that  the  time  was  gone  by  for  me  to  meddle  with  fightin' 
and  bloodshed.  But  it  could  n't  be  helped." 

"  And  it 's  over  now,  Franks  !  'T  was  a  hard  struggle,  and  a 
bloody  end.  But 'twas  not  to  be  dodged.  Let's  pull  in  now,  for 
I  reckon  the  captain  will  want  all  the  help  he  can  git  to-night 
We  ain't  out  of  the  woods  yet." 


THE   FINALE   AT   THE   BAL   MASQUE.  463 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

THE    FINALE    AT    THE    BAL    MASQUE. 

"  Oh !  I  see  that  nose  of  yours,  but  not  that  dog  that  I  shall  throw  it  to." 

Othello. 

AND,  while  this  tragic  scene  was  in  progress  on  the  river,  ou 
gallant  rover,  Lieutentant  Molyneaux,  was  footing  it,  after  a  free 
Iri«h  fashion,  in  the  saloon  of  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson.  He  had 
forgotten  his  piratical  comrade  in  the  intoxication  of  spirit  occa 
sioned  by  his  return,  at  last,  after  so  long  a  period  of  denial,  to 
the  society  of  fair  women.  As  a  good-figured  and  well-dressed 
stranger,  of  commanding  carriage,  and  wholly  unknown  —  omne 
iqnotum  pro  magnijico  —  he  was  the  observed  of  all  observers. 
Tiie  ladies  smiled  upon  him  graciously.  You  can  always  note 
when  the  fair  sex  favors  and  when  it  only  tolerates  the  party. 
They  are  not  apt  to  conceal ;  in  fact,  they  can  not,  while  young, 
easily  disguise  their  likes  and  dislikes. 

Though  something  of  a  puppy,  Molyneaux  did  not  deceive  him 
self  when  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  made  a  favorable 
impression.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  despatched  to  bring  him  to  more 
than  one  fair  lady  who  felt  willing  to  fling  him  the  handkerchief 
for  the  dance,  if  for  no  longer  engagement.  And  our  lieutenant 
soon  established  himself  on  a  favorable  footing — we  mean  no  pun 
here  —  with  old  and  young.  His  manners  gave  him  the  advan 
tage  over  the  confessedly  high  sprigs  of  nobility,  the  cavaliers 

Craven  and  Cavendish.  They  were  too  apt  to  insist  upon  thei* 
blood ;  carried  high  heads ;  and,  in  their  intercourse  with  the  best 
people  of  the  colony,  made  it  very  manifest  that  they  were  only 

emporarily  condescending  to  the  provincials. 

Now,  Molyneaux,  a  better-looking  fellow  than  either  of  them, 
wd  quite  as  well-habited,  was  rarely  upon  his  dignity.  He  was 


464  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KTAWAH. 

too  vain,  and  so  too  eager  to  conciliate  kindly  sentiment,  to  enter 
tain  much  self-esteem.  A  little  stately  at  first  —  perhaps  some 
thing  awkward  because  of  his  stateliness  —  he  soon  found  himself 
at  home  in  the  circle,  as  he  found  his  welcome ;  and  his  manners 
sensibly  improved.  He  was  gay,  chatty,  miscellaneous,  frank  — 
eager  to  take  the  floor,  and  full  of  empressement  when  in  such  a 
tete-a-tete  with  a  fair  woman  as  even  a  ballroom  will  sometimes 
afford  to  a  judicious  couple  who  have  learned  to  school  the  tones 
of  the  voice  only  to  the  stretch  of  a  single  pair  of  ears.  To  sum 
up,  Molyneaux  was  vulgarly  interesting.  His  empressement,  fatal 
to  his  aristocracy,  was  yet  everything  for  his  popularity.  His 
approach  won  an  involuntary  smile ;  his  bon  mots  and  sayings 
were  caught  up  and  repeated.  In  two  hours  he  had  taken  th 
wind  out  of  the  sails  of  both  his  high-bred  rivals. 

"  Who  is  he  ?     What  is  he  ?" 

Curiosity  grew  the  more  it  questioned.  Mrs.  Anderson  was 
charmingly  knowing  and  evasive.  She  knew  well  how  to  convert 
her  casual  capital  into  good  marketable  stock.  With  a  significant 
smile,  finger  on  lip,  she  would  answer  the  eager  questioner : — 

"  After  a  time.  You  shall  know  in  due  season.  Be  patient ; 
you  will  not  be  disappointed." 

Meanwhile,  Craven  and  Cavendish  began  to  feel  uneasy.  Moly 
neaux  had  been  doing  the  gallant  to  Zulieme  with  rare  energy. 
He  had  been  fast  growing  familiar  with  some  others  of  the  ac 
knowledged  beauties  about  town.  He  was  making  his  way  with 
wonderful  rapidity  through  the  circle. 

"  The  dem'd  impudent  puppy  !" 

"  The  dem'd  conceited  ass  !" 

"  What  a  vulgar  voice  he  has !  How  loud  in  his  tones !  how 
boisterous !" 

"  And,  do  n't  it  occur  to  you,  Keppel,  that  there  is  something 
of  the  brogue  —  a  twang  —  a — " 

"  Yes,  by  St.  Jupiter !  that  accounts  for  it  all.  He 's  a  demn'd 
impudent  Irishman !" 

"  Ha !  was  not  Sir  Richard  Pepper  about  to  come  out  to  the 
colonies  V 

"  Yes ;  but  that 's  not  Pepper !  He 's  too  short  and  too  stout. 
No  !  it 's  not  Pepper ;  but  who  is  he,  then  ?" 

"  He 's  certainly  from  '  Grane  Arm.' " 


THE   FINA1£   AT   THE   BAL   MASQUE.  465 

"  Yes !     There  'a  no  mistaking  the  brogue." 

"And  he's  a  bully!'5 

"  Right,  like  enough  !  But  I  '11  pink  his  jacket  for  him  if  he 
gives  me  a  chance  !" 

"  He 's  like  enough  to  do  it,  Keppel.  The  fellow 's  disposed  to 
be  insolent." 

"  It 's  the  bully  art.  But  a  drawn  rapier  usually  quiets  such  a 
temper." 

"  Come,  come ;  no  brawls  here  !" 

"  Here  ?  oh !  surely  not ;  but  he  must  not  put  his  horrid  ele 
phantine  hoofs  upon  my  toes  a  second  time  !" 

"  You  have  a  sort  of  pledge  to  him  already  on  that  score." 

"  Yes !  —  but,  as  we  know  nothing  of  the  fellow,  I  shall  pursue 
it  only  in  the  event  of  his  crossing  my  path  a  second  time.  I  will 
surely  pink  him  if  he  does." 

So  the  friends  talked  together,  sotto  voce,  of  the  dashing  stran 
ger.  So  Keppel  Craven  resolved  to  act  in  a  certain  event.  And 
so,  talking  and  resolving,  the  pair  eyed  the  movements  of  Moly- 
neaux  with  glances  of  jealousy  and  vexation. 

And  the  dance  sped,  and  the  promenade ;  and  groups  formed 
in  the  intervals ;  and  punches  and  lemonades  were  served,  with 
jellies  and  preserves ;  all  that  the  West  Indies,  in  that  day,  could 
provide  —  that  fashion  could  employ  —  toward  the  comforting  of 
the  *'  creature"  in  good  society. 

And,  as  the  hours  advanced  —  we  are  constrained  to  confess  it 
—  the  intoxications  of  such  an  assembly,  added  to  the  intoxicating 
effects  of  punch,  swallowed  ad  libitum,  began  to  tell  upon  the 
brain  and  the  free-and-easy  temper  of  our  roving  lieutenant. 
The  bashful  Irishman  began  gradually  to  fling  off  the  sedate  re 
straints  of  a  becoming  courtier,  as  well  as  of  a  natural  modesty. 
His  voice  grew  louder  ;  the  brogue  more  rich  ;  the  sentiment  more 
free ;  the  levity  more  audacious ;  and  his  action  began  to  corre 
spond  with  the  growing  license  of  his  tongue  and  sentiment.  Rude 
enough  before  in  the  dance,  his  steps  became  wilder,  wider,  wholly 
out  of  the  reach  of  measure  and  music.  He  would  lose  his  part 
ner  ;  lose  his  own  circle ;  and  find  himself  throwing  a  contiguous 
ring  into  most  adverse  disorder. 

But  his  merriment  all  the  while  —  his  free  laughter — the  good- 
natured  apology  which  excused  his  blundering  and  awkwardness 

20* 


466  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

—  were  readily  received;  and  his  irregularities  only  provoked  the 
mirth,  not  the  indignation  of  the  party,  if  we  except  the  two  mal 
content  rivals,  Craven  and  Cavendish.  They  grew  more  and 
more  chafed  as  they  perceived  that  the  romping  Zulicme  looked 
on  with  as  much  good  humor  as  the  rest,  and  resented  none  of 
those  familiarities  which  our  lieutenant  now  began  to  bestow  freely 
upon  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  His  hands  and  arms 
exhibited  a  restless  desire  to  paw  and  encircle.  Rebuffed,  or 
turned  aside,  he  would  laugh  merrily,  and  address  his  freedoms 
to  some  more  flexible  damsel.  In  the  dance  with  Zulieme,  he 
•would  catch  and  fetter  her  hands ;  exhibit  the  queerest  antics ; 
seize  her  fan,  work  it  violently  toward  her  face  and  his  own,  and 
break  out  into  the  wildest  guffaws.  He  was  evidently  fast  as 
cending  into  the  excesses  which  usually  distinguished  the  revelries 
among  certain  classes  of  the  West  Indies,  with  which  his  experi 
ence  had  been  considerable. 

While  they  danced  thus,  and  he  capered,  Zulieme  said  to  him : 

"  Look  you,  you  great  Irish  monster,  you  are  getting  drunk ! 
Do  n't  you  drink  any  more.  I  know  what  '11  come  next.  You  '11 
be  for  fighting  somebody  !" 

"  Who  shall  I  fight?     I  '11  fight  anybody  for  you,  Zulieme  !" 

"  Thank  you !  But  I  do  n't  want  any  fighting  done  for  me. 
I  do  n't  love  fighting.  When  I  do,  I  Ve  somebody  to  do  my  fight 
ing  already." 

"What!  you  mean  Calvert?  Blast  him,  Zulieme,  I'll  fight 
him,  any  day,  for  you  !" 

This  was  spoken  with  an  extreme  change  of  voice  and  manner, 
so  sudden  and  startling,  that  even  Zulieme  felt  it ;  and,  as  she 
looked  into  his  eyes  —  for  he  had  now  lifted  his  visor,  and  stared 
intently  upon  her  face  —  and  as  she  noted  the  stern,  concentrated 
passion  in  his  tones,  she  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  fingers  which 
violently  clutched  it,  and  said : — 

"You!  —  you  fight  him!  It  would  bewyour  last  fight,  then! 
Harry  would  chop  you  to  pieces  in  a  minute  !  And  you  talk  to 
me  of  him,  of  my  husband,  in  such  a  voice,  and  such  language ! 
And  curre  him,  too !  Go  !  you  are  a  great  Irish  blockhead  and 
a  brute ;  and  I  wish  you  'd  leave,  and  begone  to  the  ship  ! " 

"  Your  husband  !  Why,  Zulieme,  that 's  a  good  one !  What 
do  you  care  for  him  ?" 


THE    FINALE    AT   THE   BAL   MASQUE.  407 

"  Me  !  what  do  I  care  for  Harry  ?  Oh,  you  are  the  greatest 
fool!  Why  don't  you  go,  I  say,  and  leave  me?  You  will  be 
making  a  fool  of  yourself  here,  before  long,  getting  drunk  and 
fighting  somebody." 

"  To  be  sure,  I  will !  Shall  I  fight  those  two  whipper-snappers 
yonder  ?  They  seem  to  be  watching  us,  by  St.  Jupiter  !  I  ?11  see 
what  they  mean  by  it.  I  '11 — " 

And  he  was  rising,  his  glances  set  in  the  direction  of  the  two 
English  cavaliers. 

"  No,  no !"  she  cried,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  grasp 
ing  it  firmly.  "  Oh,  what  a  fool  you  are,  you  great  Irish  black 
guard  !  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  Sit  where  you  are,  and  be 
quiet !" 

"  You  do  n't  vant  me  to  go,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  go  !  Go  from  here,  before  there  is  mischief.  You  '11 
get  into  danger,  and  put  Harry  and  the  ship  in  danger.  Why 
did  you  come  ?" 

"  If  I  must  go,  Zulieme,  I  shall  pull  those  fellows'  noses  before 
I  go !  My  fingers  are  itching  for  it.  I  will  find  out  how  much 
tallow  goes  to  the  making  of  a  fashionable  puppy's  nose.  It  will 
grease  my  fingers,  no  doubt;  but  I'll  take  the  shape  out  of  the 
rudder.  I  '11  give  it  such  a  twist,  that  they  will  never  be  able  to 
steer  by  it  again." 

"  If  you  do,  Mr.  Molyneaux,  I  '11  never  forgive  you." 

"What!  you  love  that  curly-headed  chap,  do  you?  Say  so, 
and  you  send  him  to  execution  !  It  will  not  be  his  nose ;  it  will 
be  his  throat !  Say  it,  if  you  dare  !  Just  say  you  love  that  fel 
low  !" 

"  Love  him  ?  You  are  the  greatest  fool,  I  tell  you  !  You  might 
as  well  ask  me  if  I  love  you." 

"Well,  did  n't  you  once?" 

The  scorn  rose,  like  a  lightning-flash,  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  as  I  did  my  monkey  !  He  was  so  odd  and  ugly,  he  made 
me  laugh." 

"  Ha !  your  monkey  !  Zulieme  Calvert,  or  Zulieme  de  Mon- 
tano,  whichever  you  please,  those  words  shall  cost  that  fellow  his 
ears !  Ay,  they  shall  cost  you  a  pair  of  ears,  too  —  not  your  own, 
for  you  are  a  woman ;  and,  hark  you  !" — stooping  and  hissing  the 
words  into  her  ear — "  I  '11  have  you  yet ;  ay,  for  that  very  speech  ! 


468  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

Your  monkey,  Zulieme !  Pretty  little  Zulieme  !  I  shall  yet  see 
you,  and  feel  you,  hugging  and  kissing  that  monkey,  much  more 
fondly  than  you  have  ever  kissed  your  husband  —  your  royal 
Harry  —  your  —  your  —  blast  him  !" 

And,  without  waiting  her  speech,  if  she  had  been  disposed  to 
make  any,  he  rose  and  strode  away  from  her  —  strode  away  into 
the  adjoining  room,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  punch-bowl. 

For  a  moment's  space  Zulieme  was  stunned.  Her  child-nature 
was  horrified  by  the  intense  and  concentrative  bitterness  with 
which  the  man  had  spoken,  by  the  ferocious  violence  with  which 
he  threatened,  and  by  the  wolfish  glare  which  shot  from  his  eyes. 
His  phase  of  drunkenness  had  changed  in  a  moment  from  the 
monkey  to  the  tiger  development.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  va 
cant  stare  of  terror,  thoroughly  paralyzed. 

But,  only  for  a  moment.  Scarcely  had  he  left  the  room,  than 
her  attention  was  roused  by  seeing  Craven  and  Cavendish  follow 
ing  him.  These  two  young  men,  irritated  already  with  Moly- 
neaux ;  dissatisfied  with  themselves  —  their  vanity  vexed  at  the 
unwonted  necessity  of  playing  second  fiddle  in  a  circle  where  hith 
erto  they  had  been  the  ruling  spirits ;  curious  to  see  who  Moly- 
neaux  was ;  and,  with  a  vague  sense  of  a  want  unsatisfied,  a  re 
sentment  unappeased,  an  outrage  unredressed ;  without  any  defi 
nite  idea  of  what  should  be  done,  but  restless  with  mixed  emo 
tions  of  a  vexing  ill  humor  —  they  followed  him  into  the  drinking- 
room. 

As  soon  as  Zulieme  beheld  the  course  which  they  took,  her  en 
ergies  came  back  to  her.  She  started  up,  and  crossed  the  room 
to  where  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  sat,  the  centre  of  a  group  of 
well-dressed  gentlemen,  who  no  longer  ranged  themselves  in  the 
ranks  of  the  youthful  candidates  for  merriment  or  matrimony ;  and, 
drawing  her  aside,  in  a  hurried  whisper,  she  said : — 

"  Oh,  dear  Charlotte,  send  some  of  these  gentlemen  into  the 
other  room !" 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter,  dear  Zulieme  1  You  seem  fright 
ened." 

"I  am  frightened.  That  great  Irish  brute,  Molyneaux,  is 
drunk,  and  getting  savage.  He  has  been  rude  to  Craven,  and 
threatens  him.  Send  some  of  these  old  gentlemen,  and  let  them 
keep  these  foolish  fellows  from  fighting," 


THE    FINALE    AT   THE    BAL   MASQUE.  469 

"  Oh,  surely,  there  can  be  no  danger  of  that.     I  '11  go  myself." 

"  No,  do  n't  you  !" 

"  Oh,  yes :  nothing  like  a  woman  to  keep  the  peace  between 
young  men.  But  I  will  carry  some  of  these  gentlemen  with  me. 
Mr.  Yonge  —  Mr.  Yeamans  !" 

The  two  gentlemen  came  forward. 

"  Come  with  me.  The  Senorita  de  Montano  thinks  there  is  a 
quarrel  on  foot  between  some  of  our  young  gallants.  Come  with 
me,  and  give  me  your  assistance  should  it  be  necessary." 

And  quietly,  with  a  composing  smile  for  the  circle  which  she 
left,  the  fair  hostess  tripped  out  of  the  room,  followed  closely  by 
the  two  gentlemen  to  whom  she  had  appealed. 

Molyneaux  was  already  at  the  punch-bowl.  Two  or  three  per 
sons,  of  like  appetite  with  himself,  were  standing  nigh,  each  with 
a  huge  goblet  in  his  hands.  Molyneaux  filled  his  own,  and  looked 
around  with  a  lordly  complacency. 

"  Gentlemen,  with  your  permission,  I  will  drink  with  you." 

"  We  are  honored,  sir,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Thanks  !  Then  here  's  d — nation  to  land-sharks  and  water- 
sharks  ;  to  sharks  masculine  and  feminine  ;  to  tiger-sharks  and 
puppy-sharks ;  to  beast-sharks  and  human  sharks ;  to  all  sharks 
that  —  that  —  don't  value  good-fellowship,  and  don't  know  the 
honesty  in  punch !" 

"  Well,  that 's  a  grand  toast,  and  too  much  for  a  shark's  swal 
low.  Here's  to  you,  sir,  and  may  the  punch-bowl  never  run 
dry !" 

Even  as  Molyneaux  held  the  goblet  to  his  lips,  Craven  and 
Cavendish  came  upon  the  scene,  gradually  approaching  the  par 
ties.  He  held  the  uplifted  goblet  untasted,  and  glanced  at  the 
new-comers,  saying  aloud  to  those  around  him : — 

"  I  said  puppy-slicks  too,  my  friends,  you  remember !  That 's 
a  breed  by  itself.  It 's  a  breed  that  follows  in  the  wake  of  the 
tiger-sharks.  It  has  a  thundering  swallow,  big  as  any,  but  no 
teeth.  It  lives  on  what  the  tiger  leaves.  I  say,  fellows,  of  all 
sharks  I  despise,  the  puppy-shark  is  the  meanest.  I  spit  on  himA 
He'sasuckfish!" 

And  he  spat  in  the  direction  of  the  two  cavaliers,  never  onc« 
heeding  the  fine,  well-bleached  matting  on  Mrs.  Anderson's  floor. 
Then  he  swallowed  the  contents  of  his  goblet  at  a  single  gulp. 


470  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

The  action  was  sufficiently  unequivocal.  It  was  understood  by 
everybody,  and  occasioned  some  emotion  among  the  other  drink' 
ers.  Craven  and  Cavendish  did  not  misunderstand.  Both  of 
them  were  men  of  blood.  They  might  be  frivolous,  but  they  had 
courage.  They  paused,  however.  Blood  requires,  in  the  case  of 
any  old  noblesse,  of  any  country,  that  it  shall  not  descend  to  its 
inferiors,  except  in  absolute  self-defence.  They  knew  nothing  of 
Molyneaux ;  and  his  conduct  had  been  of  a  sort  to  show  that, 
whatever  of  blue  might  be  in  his  blood,  he  lacked  the  breeding  of 
the  gentleman. 

"  It  is  evident,"  said  Craven,  in  a  whisper  to  Cavendish,  "  that 
this  fellow  means  to  insult  us,  and  me  in  particular." 

«  He  is  a  bully  !" 

"  True  ;  and  in  London,  my  dear  fellow,  I  should  hire  a  cudgel- 
player  to  punish  him.  But  the  case  is  altered  here.  These  peo 
ple  know  nothing  of  the  refinements  of  a  court,  and  are  rather 
pleased  to  behold  the  higher  classes  subjected  to  mortification : 
they  will  side  with  the  bully.  Now,  if  this  fellow  will  fight,  and 
offers  any  further  annoyance,  he  shall  fight.  I  feel  that  I  can  not 
submit  to  further  trespass.  I  must  punish  him.  Look  about  you 
at  the  first  chance,  and  find  Budgell,  who  is  a  gentleman  —  he 
was  here  an  hour  ago  —  and  Gifford,  and  one  or  two  others,  whom 
we  can  trust,  to  see  fair  play.  We  must  take  care  that  we  keep 
off  all  bullies  but  the  one.  As  for  this  fellow,  I  shall  spit  him 
like  a  frog  !" 

Thus  they  communed,  and  in  low  voices,  for  a  few  seconds. 
Molyneaux  laid  his  goblet  down,  with  some  deliberation.  He 
had  evidently  made  up  his  mind  to  something.  He  approached 
them.  But,  even  as  he  did  so,  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,  followed 
by  the  two  gentlemen,  passed  between  the  parties.  She  wore  the 
sweetest  smiles ;  she  bowed  with  the  most  exquisite  graces ;  her 
tones  were  subdued  to  singular  softness : — 

"  What,  gentlemen,"  said  she,  "  do  you  fly  the  ladies  for  the 
punch-bowl  ?  Fie,  fie  upon  you  !  What  would  be  said  of  such 
taste  at  the  court  of  the  merry  monarch?  Do  you  know  the 
ladies  wait  upon  you  for  a  minuet  ?  Let  me  have  the  honor  of 
your  arms." 

Craven  and  Cavendish  were  at  once  the  gentlemen.  It  is  sur 
prising  how  much  a  clever  woman  can  achieve  against  the  angry 


THE    FINALE   AT   THE   BAL   MASQUE.  471 

passions  of  men.  She  did  not  take  the  arm  of  Cavendish  ;  only 
that  of  Craven. 

'•  Sir  Richard,"  she  said,  addressing  Molyneaux,  "  we  can  not 
spare  you." 

And  she  passed  her  arm  within  his.  He  hiccoughed,  and  stag 
gered  forward.  Her  two  elderly  companions  interposed. 

"  Pardon  us,  dear  Mrs.  Anderson,  but  we  desire  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Sir  Richard.  Suffer  him  to  remain  with  us  ;  we 
will  guaranty  his  future  appearance." 

Sir  Richard  was  not  unwilling  to  remain.  He  had  reached 
that  mood  when  woman  gives  way  to  wine.  The  lady  bore  off 
the  two  cavaliers.  So  far,  she  was  successful.  But  they  were 
both  uneasy.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say  that  they  went  through 
the  minuet.  It  is  certain  that  Cavendish  suddenly  missed  Craven, 
and  went  after  him.  The  company,  meanwhile,  was  employed. 
Zulieme  had  forgotten  her  terrors,  in  the  mazes  of  a  new  dance, 
with  a  new  partner.  Mrs.  Anderson  was  busied  with  her  circle. 
It  was  not  long  before  Craven  and  Cavendish  were  both  in  the 
room  where  Molyneaux  was  expatiating  on  the  delights  of  a  "  wet 
sheet  and  a  flowing  sea,"  half  speaking,  half  singing. 

On  the  appearance  of  the  two  cavaliers,  he  grew  sullen.  He 
had  been  seated  ;  he  now  rose.  In  evil  moment,  the  two  gentle 
men,  Yonge  and  Yeamans,  who  had  begun  to  suspect  that  his  in- 
imicality  was  toward  the  two  courtiers,  fancied  they  could  recon 
cile  the  parties.  The  error  of  such  an  effort  is  a  great  one  where 
one  of  these  is  drunk,  and  where  the  parties  have  been  reared 
under  a  different  convention.  Punch  was  supposed  to  be  the  proper 
mediatizing  spirit.  Molyneaux  was  never  insensible  to  the  claims 
of  punch.  He  was  ready  at  the  suggestion  of  a  goblet  all  round, 
But,  even  as  Craven  and  Cavendish  entered  the  circle,  the  invet 
erate  humor  of  the  drunkard  filled  his  brain ;  and  when  Yonge 
and  Yeamans  fancied  that  all  was  now  right  and  pacific,  the  rover, 
confronting  Craven,  said  abruptly  : — 

"  I  am  to  drink  with  you,  am  I  ?  Do  n't  object !  But  I  never 
drink  with  a  man  whose  nose  is  doubtful !  I  am  curious  to  see 
what  your  nose  is  made  of.  It  looks  soapy  —  greasy ;  has  a  look 
of  putty  ;  and  —  so — " 

Without  stopping  to  finish  the  speech,  he  seized  the  nose  of 
Craven  with  thumb  and  forefinger,  and,  putting  all  his  muscle 


472  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KiAWAH. 

into  the  performance,  subjected  the  astonished  member  to  such  a 
twinge  as  was  wholly  new  to  the  cavalier's  experience. 

The  action  of  Craven  was  instantaneous.  Like  all  true  Brit 
ons,  of  good  breed,  he  was  practised  in  the  "  manly  art  of  self- 
defence."  In  the  next  moment  he  addressed  a  facer  to  Moly- 
neaux,  which  drew  the  claret. 

The  parties  rushed  into  collision,  but  were  instantly  separated. 
Then,  while  Molyneaux  raved,  Craven  touched  his  sword-hilt, 
and  led  the  way  out  of  the  room  into  the  piazza,  and  thence  into 
the  street. 

The  affair  had  gone  too  far  for  intercession  or  mediation  of  any 
kind.  The  elderly  gentlemen  gave  the  matter  up.  The  punch* 
drinkers  followed  Molyneaux  as  a  leader :  Craven,  closely  attend 
ed  by  Cavendish,  was  accompanied  by  three  gentlemen ;  and  all 
parties  drew  their  swords  the  moment  they  emerged  from  the 
dwelling. 

"  Not  here !"  said  one  of  the  party.  *'  Let  us  not  bring  discredit 
on  the  house." 

And  he  led  the  way,  all  following,  to  a  thicket,  which  stood  by 
no  means  remote  in  that  early  day,  and  which  was  sufficiently  far 
from  the  dwelling  for  the  purposes  of  combat. 

None  of  the  parties  perceived  that  they  were  followed  by  other 
and  unknown  persons.  A  group  of  six  or  eight  men  had  been 
prowling  about  the  house,  sheltered  from  sight  by  as  many  forest- 
trees.  They  may  have  been  curious  only;  but  they  followed 
close  in  the  wake  of  the  combatants,  without  pressing  upon  them. 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  dwelt,  as  we  have  said,  somewhere 
near  the  present  corner  of  Church  and  Tradd  streets.  It  was  not 
much  of  a  walk  from  this  point  to  the  northern  terminus  of  the 
town,  then  very  much  on  the  spot  covered  now  by  the  churches 
St.  Philip  and  the  Circular.  There  was  a  tolerably  thick  wood  in 
this  quarter  —  oak,  pine,  and  cedar.  A  few  scattered  habitations 
had  cut  out  squares  in  the  woods  ;  but  there  was  still  enough  shel 
ter  for  security,  and  there  were  well-known  openings  in  which  the 
moon  held  a  sufficient  torch  for  the  purposes  of  strife. 

"  Not  too  fast,"  said  one  of  the  unknown  party  following ;  "  but 
keep  close.  It  is  a  fight,  I  reckon.  We  must  see  what  they  are 
after.  If  they  stand  up  for  each  other,  they  are  too  many  for  us, 
But  if  there 's  a  fight,  we  have  only  to  watch  our  chance.  Do 


THE   FINALE   AT   THE   BAL   MASQUE.  473 

you  be  ready  to  put  in  when  I  bid  you.  The  stout  fellow,  that 
you  see  yawing  so,  is  our  man.  He  is  a  sailor,  and  must  yaw  a 
little;  but  I  reckon  it's  the  Jamaica  that  wants  so  much  sea- 
room." 

And  this  group  followed  on.  Scarcely  had  they  begun  to  glide 
among  the  trees,  when  still  another  party  appeared,  taking  the 
same  course. 

"  To  the  right,  Belcher  !  Sweep  round  for  the  rear ;  and  take 
cover,  as  you  see  me.  Till  I  move,  let  no  man  stir.  Use  no  pis 
tols,  if  you  can  help  it ;  the  bludgeons  will  answer.  Take  no  life, 
mark  you,  save  in  self-defence.  But,  when  I  have  my  man,  throw 
yourselves  between  us  and  the  creek,  and  retreat  with  your  faces 
to  the  pursuers,  whom  you  can  easily  keep  back  with  the  show 
of  firearms,  till  they  lose  the  chase  in  the  thicket  by  the  marsh. 
Look  to  me  to  take  you  off  in  the  boat." 


£74  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

HOW  CALVERT  AND  MOLYNEAUX  MEET. 

"Let  life  be  short;  else,  shame  will  be  too  long !" 

SHAKESPEARE. 

LITTLE  did  Molyneaux  suspect  how  much,  and  by  how  many, 
he  was  the  subject  of  consideration  at  this  moment.  Ignorant, 
arrogant,  vain,  and  maudlin,  in  his  ferocious  mood,  he  thought  of 
nothing  but  wreaking  his  resentment  upon  the  cavaliers  he  was 
about  to  meet.  He  dreamed  not  of  the  several  parties  following 
in  his  wake ;  some  of  them  prepared  to  pursue  him  to  the  death, 
with  even  more  tenacity  of  purpose,  though  perhaps  less  personal 
feeling,  than  the  Honorable  Keppel  Craven. 

Reaching  the  sufficient  cover  of  the  woods,  with  a  broad  space 
within  the  enclosure  over  which  the  moon  cast  an  adequate  light, 
the  antagonists  paused,  their  rapiers  already  naked  in  their  hands. 
One  of  the  punch-drinkers,  who  had  somehow  tacitly  become  the 
second  of  Molyneaux,  met  and  conferred  with  Cavendish,  who 
acted  for  Craven. 

"  Can  we  not  adjust  this  matter  without  crossing  weapons  ?" 
was  the  natural  question  of  Molyneaux'  friend. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  this  is  possible,"  answered  Cavendish,  with 
English  phlegm.  "  My  friend  has  been  subjected  to  a  persona] 
indignity.  It  is  not  merely  a  point  of  honor ;  it  is  an  issue  of 
blood." 

"  We  then  underlie  your  challenge,"  said  the  other. 

«  Surely." 

"  Will  the  simple  drawing  of  blood  suffice  ?" 

"  If  it  shall  amount  to  the  positive  disabling  of  one  or  other  of 
the  combatants ;  not  else." 

" Then  it  is  the  combat  a  Voutrance" 


HOW  CALVERT    AND   MOLYNEAUX   MEET.  475 

Cavendish  bowed. 

The  rapier  only." 

"  We  have  hardly  any  other  choice  at  present." 

u  Pshaw,  my  dear  fellow !"  cried  Molyneaux,  staggering  for 
ward  and  interposing,  "what's  the  use  of  this  d d  long  pala 
ver  ?  The  fellow  's  got  to  fight,  has  n't  he  ;  or  has  the  feeling  in 
is  nose  quite  worn  off?  Would  he  have  me  give  him  another 
tweak  ?" 

After  this,  there  could  be  no  further  preliminaries.  Craven, 
now  keenly  excited,  confronted  him.  At  once  the  weapons 
crossed  each  other:  a  moment's  pause,  when  they  clashed,  clung, 
strove  together,  flashed  in  air ;  and  were  then  worked  with  thti 
rapid  evolutions  known  to  practised  swordsmen. 

Craven  was  well  taught  in  the  science ;  had  been  taught  by 
one  of  the  best  Italian  masters  of  the  time.  Molyneaux  had  had 
no  such  master.  But  he  had  been  in  scores  of  actual  conflicts,  for 
life  and  death,  with  Frenchman  and  Spaniard,  on  decks  already 
slippery  with  gore.  The  one  had  the  art  in  nicer  perfection  : 
the  other  the  fiercer  passion  for  blood ;  the  Hunnish  thirst  for  the 
conflict ;  the  muscular  power ;  the  eye  that  had  learned  to  look 
on  death  and  ferocity  with  scorn ;  the  rage  that  makes  battle  with 
an  enemy  a  passion  and  delight. 

If  Craven  had  agility  and  art,  Molyneaux  had  a  reckless  fury, 
and  a  physical  force,  that  may  have  matched  them.  Besides,  the 
degree  of  drunkenness  which  might  have  blinded  and  stupefied 
another  person  of  different  temperament,  was,  in  the  case  of  his 
Celtic  blood,  a  positive  assistance.  It  had  not  so  far  advanced  as 
to  enfeeble  his  physique,  though  it  staggered  it.  He  had  a  formi 
dable  brain  for  punch ;  and  now,  yawing  still  in  sailor-fashion, 
with  his  head  rolling,  but  his  eyes  fixed  with  a  steady,  bright 
glare,  in  which  the  ferocity  rose  almost  to  the  expression  of  in 
sanity  —  and  his  rage,  und'  r  the  existing  conditions  of  his  case, 
was  very  like  insanity  —  it  was  astonishing  how  cool  and  collected 
was  his  play.  It  was  one  thing  for  his  brain  and  blood  to  be  on 
fire ;  but  his  sword  was  as  sober  as  it  was  keen :  his  practice  was 
positively  refreshing  in  contrast  with  the  evident  fury  of  his  blood. 
He  came  on  guard,  passed,  made  his  feints,  recovered,  with  the 
ease  and  simple  dexterity  of  one  refining  in  the  schools. 

Craven  felt  that  he  needed  all  of  his  own  play.     Though  en- 


476  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

raged  and  indignant,  he  had  none  of  that  wolfish  venom  in  his 
blood,  that  tiger-like  thirst,  which  had  been  all  the  while  at  work 
with  Molyneaux.  He  could  be  temperate,  and  was  so,  without 
being  frigid.  He  felt  that  so  long  as  he  could  maintain  his  pres 
ent  temper,  he  was  a  match  for  his  antagonist ;  but  he  also  felt, 
after  a  few  minutes'  play,  that  he  had  nothing  to  spare. 

And  the  play  went  on. 

But  it  was  growing  to  be  work.  The  steady  glare  of  Moly 
neaux'  eyes  upon  his  own  warned  him  that  the  other  was  prepar 
ing  for  a  vindictive  passage.  It  came,  with  formidable  force. 
The  Celt  was  pressing  upon  the  Anglo-Norman :  the  latter  re 
ceded  under  the  very  tempest  of  thrusts  put  in  —  receded,  but 
kept  eye  and  sword  firm  and  steady ;  and,  watching  the  first  ces 
sation  of  the  shower,  he  himself  now  made  offensive  play ;  and 
succeeded,  by  an  adroit  management  of  one  of  his  Italian  master's 
favorite  feints,  in  a  triumphant  lunge  which  pierced  the  sword-arm 
of  his  antagonist. 

It  was  but  a  flesh-wound  —  the  hurt  was  slight,  though  sharp; 
and,  with  a  positive  roar,  like  that  of  a  wounded  bull,  now  desper 
ate,  our  Celt  rushed  upon  the  Englishman,  beat  down  his  guard, 
had  him  at  his  mercy,  was  about  to  send  the  rapier  home  to  his 
heart,  when  he  was  suddenly  caught,  clasped  by  the  body  from 
behind,  his  arms  drawn  back  and  fettered  by  a  powerful  gripe, 
which  not  only  prevented  his  thrust,  but  deprived  him  of  all  ca 
pacity  for  resistance.  Craven  recovered  himself,  but  lowered  the 
point  of  his  weapon,  and,  with  the  instant  spirit  of  the  gentleman, 
interposed : — 

"  Why  do  you  interfere,  sirrah  ?  How  dare  you  pass  between 
gentlemen  thus  ?  Stand  by  me,  my  friends,  and  rescue  Sir  Rich 
ard  Molyneaux !" 

"  Sir  Richard  Fiddlestick !"  said  the  powerful  fellow  who  had 
our  lieutenant,  struggling  furiously,  in  his  clutches  — 

u  Stand  back,  gentlemen,  and  do  not  let  his  majesty's  servants 
in  the  execution  of  their  duty.  I  am  Captain  Florence  O'Sulli- 
van,  commander  of  the  guard,  and  this  is  the  famous  pirate-captain, 
Calvert ;  I  have  the  council's  warrant  for  his  capture,  under  hia 
majesty's  proclamation.  Disperse,  and  leave  this  fellow  in  my 
hands.  You  have  done  him  too  much  honor,  Mr.  Craven,  in  cros 
sing  weapons  with  him." 


HOW  CALVERT  AND  MOLYNEAUX  MEET.       477 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !"  were  the  only  ejaculations  of  Molyneaux,  as 
he  heard  these  words.  They  caused  him  to  renew  his  struggles 
more  violently  than  ever.  Powerful  of  frame  as  was  O'Sullivan, 
he  had  not  been  able  to  get  him  down. 

Craven  was  reluctant  to  withdraw ;  but  Cavendish,  seizing  him 
by  the  arm,  forced  him  away. 

"  It  is  not  well  for  us  to  be  seen  further  in  this  business,"  said 
he,  as  he  drew  him  off. 

Meanwhile,  the  punch-drinking  companions  of  Molyneaux  dis 
appeared  among  the  shrubbery  the  moment  they  recognised  the 
chief  of  police.  Our  Celt  was  abandoned  to  the  officer  of  justice, 
whose  myrmidons,  four  or  five  in  number,  were  now  busy  in  help 
ing  to  secure  the  prisoner. 

But,  with  a  surprise  as  sudden  and  unexpected  as  his  seizure 
had  been  to  Molyneaux,  the  redoubtable  Captain  O'Sullivan  re 
ceived  a  buffet  under  the  ear  from  some  unknown  but  well-prac 
tised  hand  —  so  well  delivered,  an  upraking  blow,  of  tremendous 
force  —  under  which  he  dropped  down  as  quickly  as  the  bullock 
beneath  the  stroke  of  the  butcher,  and  lay  perfectly  insensible  ! 
At  the  same  moment,  a  score  of  stout  sea-dogs,  cudgel  in  hand, 
made  in  among  the  squad  of  local  police,  and,  laying  their  staves 
about  them  with  hearty  good  will,  dispersed  Dogberry,  Verges, 
and  the  rest,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  No  need  to  show  the 
pistols  —  to  spring  locks  or  pull  triggers. 

Molyneaux  was  rescued,  but  too  much  stupefied  by  these  suc 
cessive  changes  in  his  condition  to  understand  a  syllable  as  yet. 
But  he  stood  up,  freed,  and  shook  himself,  even  as  a  great  New 
foundland  dog  just  out  of  the  water. 

The  person  who  rescued  him  seized  him  by  the  hand : — 

"  Come,  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  we  have  no  time  to  lose.  This 
fellow  will  recover  in  a  moment  or  two,  and  he  might  trouble  us. 
Let  us  away !" 

"  It  is  Captain  Calvert,"  said  the  lieutenant,  meekly. 

There  was  no  answer.  Calvert,  for  it  was  he,  led  the  way  in 
silence. 

Molyneaux  was  becoming  sobered  and  ashamed. 

"  Captain  Calvert,"  continued  he,  apologetically,  though  with 
gome  effort,  "  I  am  ashamed,  sir,  of  all  this  business — " 

"  Let  us  not  talk  of  it  now." 


478  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  But  I  must  talk  of  it,  :ir.  You  have  saved  me  from  the  gal 
lows,  I  suppose." 

"  Very  likely,"  answered  the  other,  dryly.     "  But,  come  on  !" 

And  he  hurrie^Jforward,  as  if  to  escape  any  further  explana 
tion. 

Molyneaux  was  piqued,  but  followed.  What  else  could  he 
do? 

They  reached  the  edge  of  a  creek.  The  solid  citizens  of  the 
present  Charleston,  when  they  look  at  the  marble  walls  of  the 
new  custom-house,  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  be  told  that  the 
said  creek  ran  into  the  city  under  the  piled  foundations  of  the 
said  fabric,  and  made  its  way,  somewhat  sinuously,  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  town,  finding  its  terminus  not  far  from  the  present 
massive  structure  called  at  this  day  the  Charleston  hotel. 

Here,  our  rover  and  his  lieutenant  found  a  boat,  with  but  two 
rowers,  though  the  vessel  was  large  enough  for  a  dozen.  Into 
this  they  got ;  the  captain  taking  the  seat  at  the  tiller,  and  sound 
ing  the  little  ivory  whistle  which  he  carried. 

They  may  have  waited  some  ten  minutes  before  the  seamen 
began  to  appear.  Molyneaux  several  times  attempted  to  break 
the  silence,  by  apologetic  and  atoning  speeches,  but  Calvert  bluffed 
him  off.  He  sat  moodily  taciturn.  The  lieutenant  gradually 
sobered,  and  became  moody  also. 

When  all  the  sailors  were  reported,  the  boat  put  off  without  a 
word.  She  was  rowed  out  into  the  river,  and  headed  up-stream. 
After  an  hour's  pulling,  she  was  brought  to,  in-shore,  at  a  point 
subsequently  well  known  as  Hampstead.  The  whole  party,  two 
excepted,  went  ashore,  as  if  under  previous  orders  of  the  captain. 
Here  they  found  themselves  upon  the  banks  of  the  stream,  a  tol 
erably  high  piece  of  headland,  with  a  thick  wood  of  pines  and 
oaks  contiguous. 

Among  the  party  here  assembled  were  Jack  Belcher  and  the 
ancient  Tom  Bowling,  Master  Franks.  They  had,  it  appears, 
brought  the  boat  round,  having  the  assistance  of  four  other  oars 
men,  from  Ashley  to  Cooper  river.  It  was  the  same  boat  which 
had  witnessed  the  fearful  strife  with  the  old  pirate  Fowler,  and 
his  final  surrender  to  the  fishes. 

When  fairly  landed,  Calvert  said,  abruptly  : — 

"  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,  we  must  have   some  talk   together 


HOW   CALVERT   AND   MOLYNEAUX   MEET.  479 

Belcher,  you  and  Franks  take  the  men  off;  keep  them  distant  a 
hundred  yards  or  so.  If  Mr.  Molyneaux,  after  our  interview, 
comes  out  to  you,  take  him  aboard  the  ship.  Do  not  inquire 
whither  I  go.  Belcher  alone  will  follow,  and  find  me  out.  He 
knows  what  I  design,  and  will  act  according  to  my  instructions." 

Belcher  seized  his  hand  and  wrung  it  with  a  passionate  grasp 
of  emotion,  amounting  to  agony,  while  his  eyes  gushed  with  tears. 

"  Go,  now,  Jack,  and  remember !  Do  as  I  have  commanded. 
You  see  that  the  thing  is  unavoidable." 

Saying  this,  he  shook  off  the  faithful  fellow,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  edge  of  the  woods  —  now  Hampstead,  and  woods  no  longer. 

Molyneaux  was  mystified.  He  felt  that  something  unusual  was 
about  to  occur,  and  his  guilty  conscience  made  him  apprehensive. 
But  he  followed  doggedly. 

When  the  two  reached  the  edge  of  the  wood,  Calvert  paused. 
He  was  a  man  of  terribly  direct  purpose  —  no  trifler. 

"  Lieutenant  Molyneaux,"  he  said,  "  we  are  now  alone  togeth 
er.  I  need  not  say  to  you  that  we  can  no  longer  sail  in  company. 
Your  own  conscience  will  tell  you  why.  I  scarcely  need  add, 
that  we  are  foes  ;  that  you  have  long  entertained  a  bitter  hostility 
to  me,  and  that  you  have  done  me  such  wrong,  and  meditated 
such  further  wrong,  not  simply  to  my  life,  but  to  my  honor,  that 
the  issue  between  us  must  be  one  of  life  and  death." 

"  Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  we  are  to  fight  ?"  answered  the  other. 

"  Nothing  less,  sir  !" 

"  I  can  not  fight  with  the  man  who  has  just  saved  my  life." 

"  That  will  not  do,  sir.  I  have  saved  your  life  before ;  and, 
even  after  this,  you  have  entertained  a  design  against  my  honor. 
Remember,  sir,  the  last  speech  you  made  to  my  wife,  this  very 
night,  in  which  you  proposed  my  death  as  your  dearest  hope,  and 
brutally  asserted  your  purpose  to  compel  her  to  your  wishes  !" 

"  Has  she  told  you  this  ?"  asked  the  other,  in  husky  accents. 

"  No,  sir ;  but  I  have  been  near  her,  all  this  night,  as  her  guard- 
an  and  protector,  and  she  knew  not,  no  more  than  you." 

"  Captain  Calvert  in  the  character  of  a  spy !"  said  the  other, 
bitterly. 

"  When  we  have  to  deal  with  traitors,  Lieutenant  Molyneaux, 
the  spy  becomes  necessary  to  the  safety  of  the  captain,  his  ship, 
his  crew,  his  honor,  and  the  well-being  of  the  people  he  has  in 


480  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

charge.  Hear  me,  sir!  I  have  done  much  for  you.  I  liked 
you ;  promoted  you ;  paid  you  well ;  fostered  you ;  would  have 
made  a  man  of  you.  Your  wretched  vanity  would  not  be  content 
with  a  part  —  you  craved  all !  You  were  not  content  to  be  sec 
ond  officer ;  you  wished  to  be  first.  You  were  not  content  that 
your  captain's  purse  was  yours ;  you  attempted  his  honor.  You 
have  wronged  me,  and  insulted  my  wife.  I  need  not  say,  after 
this,  that  there  is  but  one  necessity  before  us." 

"  Why  did  you  save  me  from  the  officers  of  the  law,  having  a 
purpose  yourself  to  slay  me  ?" 

"  I  saved  you  from  the  law,  because  I  had,  in  some  degree,  con 
tributed  to  bring  you  within  its  jurisdiction.  I  saved  you,  as  I 
would  save,  or  try  to  save,  the  meanest  scullion  on  board  my  ship. 
You  yourself,  it  is  true,  by  your  own  disobedience  of  orders, 
brought  yourself  into  danger ;  but  I  brought  you  within  the  sphere 
of  temptation.  I  knew  your  weakness,  your  vanity,  yet  left  you 
in  possession  of  a  degree  of  liberty  and  power  inconsistent  with 
your  judgment.  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  save  you  from  the 
consequences  of  your  folly.  This  done,  I  propose  to  give  you  a 
chance  for  escape  from  other  punishment.  You  have  been  pleased 
to  avow  your  hate  of  me  —  your  desire  to  destroy  me  —  and  can 
not  complain  that  I  now  afford  you  the  opportunity  that  you 
crave,  on  equal  terms,  your  sword  to  mine." 

"  I  can  not  draw  sword  upon  you,  sir :  you  have  just  saved  my 
life." 

"  Think  again,  Lieutenant  Molyneaux.  Think  that  the  same 
vigilance  that  has  watched  over  your  conduct  and  safety  this 
night,  has  been  equally  exercised  in  regard  to  the  ship,  and  that 
nothing  has  escaped  the  eyes  of  one  who  feels  himself  conscien 
tiously  bound  for  the  safety  of*  the  meanest  cabin-boy  that  works 
under  his  command.  I  know  all,  sir." 

"  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  sir." 

"  God !  that  a  brave  man  should  lie  !  Know,  then,  sir,  that 
Fowler,  this  night,  has  paid  for  his  crimes  with  his  life !  —  that  I 
well  know  all  the  details  of  that  foul  conspiracy  by  which  you  and 
he  agreed  to  seize  the  ship,  and  supersede  the  flag  of  England 
by  the  bloody  banner  of  piracy !  You  were  to  run  up  the  Jolly 
Roger—" 

"  Enough  !  enough  !     It  is,  indeed,  your  life  or  mine  !" 


HOW   CALVERT   AND   MOLYNEAUX  MEET.  481 

And  Molyneaux,  drawing  his  rapier  in  an  instant,  rushed  upon 
his  captain. 

The  other  was  not  unprepared.  The  fight  was  short,  but  ter 
rific.  Molyneaux  was  run  through  the  body  after  a  few  passes. 
He  lay  weltering  in  his  blood  on  the  ground,  but  he  had  his 
senses,  and,  with  his  senses,  a  return  of  proper  feeling. 

"  Forgive  me,  Captain  Calvert,  forgive  me  !  I  am  rightly  pun 
ished.  I  have  been  an  ass,  sir;  a  d d  peacock  ;  a  fool,  sir  — 

what  a  fool !  I  see  it  now.  Ah,  it  is  all  over !  What  a  fool  I 
have  been !" 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Molyneaux  —  very  sorry !  I  would  have 
saved  you.  But  your  death  was  necessary  to  the  safety  of  the 
crew.  You  would  have  led  them  to  piracy  and  the  gallows.  I 
would  save  them  from  both.  But,  in  honor,  I  felt  bound  to  give 
you  the  one  chance  for  your  life,  which  your  personal  hostility  to 
me  seemed  to  require.  I  have  no  enmities.  I  would  save  you 
now,  if  I  could.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Do  ?  Yes  !  yes  !  I  have  a  mother  —  I  have  sisters — in  Ire 
land.  Wexford  —  Wexford!  Give  'em  what  is  mine.  There 
is  money  —  much  —  enough  for  their  wants.  Tell  them  nothing. 
Give  them  the  money." 

"  It  shall  be  done  !     What  more  ?" 

"  Bury  me  in  the  sea !  not  here !  Mattress  me  well.  Well 
shotted ;  so  that  the  d d  sharks  do  not  tear  me  to  pieces !" 

We  spare  the  rest.     So  the  fool  died ! 

Calvert  joined  the  boat's  crew,  and  the  body  of  Molyneaux  was 
carried  on  board.  That  night,  according  to  his  wishes,  in  shotted 
mattress,  he  was  committed  to  the  deep  waters  of  Cooper  river  I 

21 


482  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

HOW   ZULIEME    BECAME    A    CAPTIVE. 
"  We  give  this  pretty  hostage  to  your  keeping/' —  Old  Play. 

THE  body  of  Molyneaux  committed  to  the  deep,  at  the  moutli 
of  that  bold  creek  which  is  now  called  Hog-island  channel,  the 
boat  of  our  rover  shot  downward,  skirting  the  mud-reef  on  which 
"  Castle  Pinckney"  now  stands.  Here  it  was  run  up  close  to  the 
reef,  and  the  party  went  on  shore.  A  narrow  stretch  of  shells 
and  sand  afforded  them  solid  footing ;  and  here,  it  seemed,  Cap 
tain  Calvert  proposed  a  temporary  rest,  with  what  object  we  shall 
see  hereafter. 

The  spot  was  a  gloomy  one  enough.  The  moon  was  entering 
a  body  of  dark  masses  of  clouds  which  were  silently  heaving  up 
from  the  west.  The  morning  was  close  at  hand.  The  tide  was 
at  its  ebb.  The  adjuncts  of  the  immediate  scene  were  well  cal 
culated  to  increase  the  solemnity  of  the  hour,  the  gloom  of  the 
events  which  had  just  taken  place,  and  the  situation  of  the  party. 
A  ruined  habitation  of  logs,  the  refuge  of  some  lonely  fisherman, 
was  the  only  sign  of  life  that  the  spot  afforded,  and  that  was  of 
life  departed.  A  more  imposing  structure,  ominous  of  death  in 
its  most  terrible  aspect,  stood  at  the  very  verge  of  the  shelly  part 
of  the  reef,  in  that  gallows  whose  cruel  uses,  pointed  out  to  Zu- 
licme  when  she  first  approached  the  city,  had  called  forth  her  ex 
pressions  of  horror  and  disgust  at  the  brute  ferocity  of  the  Eng 
lish  race.  There  it  stood,  in  solitary  significance,  and  a  bit  of 
rope  still  hung  dangling  from  the  centre  of  the  horizontal  beam 
Calvert  surveyed  the  engine  with  a  stern  composure ;  but,  after  a 
moment,  he  said  abruptly  to  his  followers  — 

"  Is  there  an  axe  in  the  boat  ?" 


HOW   ZULIEME   BECAME   A    CAPTIVE.  483 

"  There  is,  sir." 

"  Bring  it,  and  cut  down  this  gallows  !  Let  it  no  more  disgrace 
the  approaches  to  a  town  which  boasts  of  human  ties  and  affec 
tions.  If  the  law  requires  human  blood,  let  it  not  gloat  over 
mortal  agonies ;  let  it  not  ostentatiously  mock  humanity  with  the 
show  of  the  cruel  engine  on  which  it  stretches  humanity  for 
death !" 

And  he  stood,  sternly  watching  the  proceeding,  while  one  of 
the  sailors,  with  vigorous  arm  and  active  stroke,  smote  the  up 
rights  until  ready  to  fall ;  when,  lending  their  united  strength,  the 
party  pushed  the  ominous  fabric  into  the  sea.  It  was  a  relief  to 
all  when  its  skeleton  frame  no  longer  towered  above  their  heads, 
and  they  beheld  it  borne  away  by  the  billows,  and  whirling  out 
ward  to  the  great  deeps. 

Here,  in  solemn  brooding,  with  a  mind  intensely  exercised  with 
the  numerous  and  conflicting  cares  which  still  rose  before  it,  Cal- 
vert  sat  silent,  a  protracted  watch,  which  none  of  his  followers 
cared  to  disturb.  Some  of  them  strolled  along  the  reef,  and  con 
versed  thoughtfully  —  for  even  the  reckless  sailor,  in  such  an  hour 
and  situation,  can  think  deeply  and  sadly ;  while  others  went  on 
board  the  boat,  and  lay  at  length  upon  their  oars. 

Suddenly,  the  attention  of  the  party  was  sharply  awakened  by 
the  deep  bellowing  of  a  gun  from  the  town.  Another  and  another 
followed,  in  quick  succession. 

"  It  is  the  fort  at  Oyster  Point,  sir,"  said  Belcher  to  Calvert. 

"  Ay  !  the  ship  is  coming  round." 

"  She  will  soon  pass  the  fort,  sir  —  wind  and  tide  are  both  in 
her  favor." 

"  Ay,  they  can  scarcely  give  her  more  than  a  single  round ; 
and,  unless  some  unlucky  shot  should  cripple  her  masts,  she  will 
suffer  nothing.  To  the  boat !  We  must  put  off,  and  make  the 
signal." 

"  All  hands  aboard  !" 

The  boat  was  off,  a  few  minutes  after,  and  rowing  due  south. 
Soon  the  tapering  masts  and  broad  sheets  of  the  Happy-go-Lucky 
were  seen  sweeping  round  from  west  to  east — rounding  the  point 
of  shoal  which,  as  "  The  Battery,"  is  now  the  favorite  drive,  "  Car- 
rousel"  or  "  Alameda"  and  promenade,  of  the  present  city.  She 
had  escaped  the  shot  of  the  fort  with  a  mere  rent  in  her  rigging. 


484  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Send  up  the  signal,  Belcher,  that  they  may  know  where  to 
look  for  us,"  said  Calvert. 

In  an  instant  a  light  was  struck,  and  a  rocket  of  blue  fires  went 
up  from  the  dark  bosom  of  the  bay.  It  was  soon  answered  by 
another  from  the  ship,  which  now  shaped  her  course  for  the  little 
vessel.  It  was  not  long  before  Calvert,  followed  by  the  boat's 
crew,  ascended  the  sides  of  the  Happy-go-Lucky,  once  more  the 
free  rover — once  more  sole  master  of  his  little  world;  and,  as  he 
strode  the  quarter-deck,  he  was  conscious  of  security,  and  a  certain 
degree  of  elation  at  having  escaped  more  perils  than  we  have 
thought  proper  to  put  on  record. 

Eccles,  now  first-lieutenant,  had  proved  faithful.  His  former 
rank  was  conferred  on  young  Hazard,  the  loyal  emissary  on  board 
when  Calvert  was  absent  from  the  ship  ;  a  mere  boy  of  nineteen 
but  precocious,  ardent,  full  of  enthusiasm  as  courage,  and  too 
happy  to  be  doing,  to  desire  to  do  wilfully  or  mischievously.  Cal 
vert  possessed  a  rare  faculty  in  the  knowledge  of  men.  He  took 
no  present  heed  of  the  seamen  who  had  pledged  themselves  to 
Molyneaux  and  Fowler.  He  well  knew  how  they  had  been  se 
duced  from  duty ;  and,  their  ringleaders  cut  off,  had  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  the  mere  followers  would  sink  back  to  their  ordinary 
tasks,  and  do  them  especially  well,  if  only  to  prevent  suspicion,  or 
investigation  of  the  past.  Besides,  he  was  aware  that  all  of  the 
guilty  parties  were  known  to  Hazard.  His  eye  would  be  upon 
them  for  the  future. 

The  Happy-go-Lucky,  with  a  fair  wind,  at  once  put  out  to  sea. 

But,  whither  ?  And  will  Calvert  leave  his  work  undone  ?  Has 
he  left  the  colony  to  its  fate?  —  left  it  to  the  savages  to  work  out 
their  scheme  of  midnight  murder  ?  —  left  his  wife  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  his  enemies  ? 

Hardly !  We  have  known  his  character  too  long  to  suppose 
that  he  will  be  unfaithful  to  any  duties  or  any  interests  in  behalf 
of  which  he  ?ias  given  his  pledges  in  his  cares.  And,  as  yet,  w 
know  not  what  his  policy  may  be :  but  we  may  rest  assured  that  it  is 
one  founded  on  thought,  experience,  and  a  knowledge  of  necessi 
ties  which  have  not  yet  become  clear  to  us ;  in  brief,  of  the  best 
human  wisdom,  in  such  a  case  as  his,  as  it  develops  to  his  under 
standing.  Hitherto,  he  has  proved  himself  equal  to  every  emer 
gency. 


HOW   ZULIEME   BECAME   A    CAPTIVE.  485 

Leaving  the  rover  to  his  own  progress  on  the  high-seas,  let  ua 
look  to  other  parties  in  the  infant  city. 

Governor  Quarry  is  somewhat  uneasy.  He  has  a  guest  whose 
presence  is  annoying.  This  is  Morton,  one  of  the  "  proprietary 
council."  Other  councillors  are  expected.  Despatches  have  been 
sent  for  Middleton  and  Berkeley.  Morton  has  hurried  down 
from  his  country-seat,  charged  with  the  secret  intelligence  of  Still- 
water.  He  tells  Quarry  that,  under  the  exigency,  he  himself  has 
taken  leave  to  send  express  to  New  York  for  all  such  ships-of-war 
as  his  majesty  may  ha^'j  in  the  waters  of  that  colony.  At  his  re 
quisition,  Quarry  has  issued  his  proclamation  against  the  pirate 
Calvert.  Florence  O'Sullivan  has  been  commissioned  for  his  ar 
rest,  with  powers  to  call  out  the  posse  comitatus.  It  is  positively 
sworn  by  Stillwater,  alias  Sylvester,  that  Calvert  is  in  Charles 
ton.  Nay,  more ;  there  is  an  affidavit,  by  the  same  immaculate 
patriot,  that  the  pirate's  mistress  is  in  town,  particeps  criminis, 
and  vending  contraband  goods !  Poor  little  Zulieme  a  contra- 
bandista !  and  a  warrant  has  been  issued  for  her  arrest,  even 
while  she  foots  it  with  the  cavaliers. 

We  need  not  wonder  that  Quarry  is  disquieted.  No  wonder 
that  he  paces  his  library,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  very  rest 
lessly,  Morton  present ;  uneasy,  excited,  yet  compelled  to  aj.t 
pear  not  only  cool  and  determined,  but  especially  loyal ;  with  a 
holy  indignation  against  pirates,  and  Calvert  in  particular,  as  the 
prince  of  them  !  He  does  not  know  what  will  be  the  upshot  of 
the  business.  The  fact  that  Stillwater  has  travelled  off  to  Mor 
ton,  argues  for  certain  doubts,  on  the  part  of  that  worthy  citizen 
as  regards  himself.  His  own  conscience  assures  him  that  these 
doubts  are  well  founded.  But  how  much  is  known  ?  how  much 
suspected  ?  He  believes  that  Morton  regards  him  with  suspicion 
also.  Altogether,  his  position  is  a  disquieting  one ;  but  he  smiles, 
is  courteous,  outwardly  calm,  and  wonderfully  loyal. 

He  has  one  little  gleam  of  consolation.  At  twelve  o'clock,  just 
one  hour  before  Morton's  arrival,  he  had  received  a  little  scrap  of 
paper,  on  which  he  reads  — 

"  Have  no  fear,  though  events  are  ripening  rapidly.  I  shall 
make  myself  safe.  There  will  be  an  uproar,  but  no  discovery  that 
shall  tro'ible  you.  Do  your  duty  as  an  official.  Be  no  laggard. 
Do  you»*  vf-jiost.  Anticipate  any  and  every  demand  of  the  coun 


486  THE   CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

cil.  Show  yourself  as  earnest  as  you  please.  Issue  your  procla 
mation  —  your  warrants.  Seek  no  evasion.  Be  as  hearty,  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  supposed  public  enemy,  as  my  enemies  desire. 
Go  beyond  them  in  your  endeavors.  Nothing  that  you  or  they 
can  do  will  affect  my  safety.  Do  not  let  them  affect  yours.  Be 
the  governor,  in  all  respects ;  as  much  so  as  the  most  bigoted  pro 
prietaries  could  require." 

The  paper  was  not  signed,  but  the  handwriting  was  known. 
Quarry  read,  and  at  once  consumed  it  in  the  candle.  He  thanked 
Calvert  in  his  heart.  It  was  the  only  assurance  that  he  had.  He 
obeyed  his  counsels ;  and  Morton,  whom  Sylvester  had  taught  to 
suspect  the  governor,  was  absolutely  confounded  at  his  ready  loy 
alty,  and  the  eager  earnestness  with  which  he  addressed  his  efforts 
to  the  capture  of  ..the  outlaws  supposed  to  be  in  town. 

The  governor  and  his  councilmen  have  done  all  that  they  could 
do.  They  have  sent  forth  their  myrmidons,  armed  with  the  proper 
warrants,  and,  as  Sylvester  supposed,  with  the  adequate  force  to 
carry  them  into  effect.  We  have  seen  the  issue  of  their  strata 
gems.  It  was  somewhat  later  when  the  tidings  reached  Quarry 
and  Morton.  Sylvester  was  the  first  to  appear,  his  head  broken 
with  a  cudgel-stroke.  He  reported  the  facts,  as  far  as  he  knew 
them,  and  announced  O'Sullivan,  the  chef-de-police,  as  slain  out 
right.  But,  hardly  had  he  got  through  his  narrative,  when  O'Sul 
livan  himself  appeared,  bloody  at  mouth  and  ears,  but  not  mate 
rially  hurt.  He  could  only  report  his  failure.  He  had  caught 
the  pirate-captain  ;  but  he  was  rescued  by  superior  force,  and  the 
city  police  had  utterly  failed  him.  The  town  must  be  put  under 
martial  law.  It  was  evidently  full  of  pirates. 

Even  while  they  conferred  together,  the  heavy  booming  of  the 
cannon  of  the  fort  added  new  materials  to  the  excitement. 

"  It  is  the  fort !  The  pirate  is  evidently  passing.  Heaven 
grant  that  they  sink  her !"  said  the  patriotic  governor. 

"  The  fort,"  replied  O'Sullivan,  "  is  a  mere  pepper-box.  It  will 
be  only  a  lucky  accident  if  they  do  her  any  damage.  Tide 's  run 
ning  out  like  a  mill-race,  and  the  wind  favors.  Before  they  can 
load  up  for  a  second  shot,  she  will  have  passed  them !" 

"  Who  's  in  command,  captain  ?" 

"  Lieutenant  Waring." 

"  Does  he  know  what 's  to  be  done  ?" 


HOW    ZUL1EME    BECAME   A    CAPTIVE.  487 

"  All  that  he  can  do,  he  will  do !" 

"Let  us  to  the  fort,  Morton,"  said  Quarry,  buckling  on  his 
small-sword.  He  was  monstrously  relieved  by  the  intelligence 
which  was  brought  him.  It  confirmed  all  the  assurances  made  in 
his  anonymous  despatch.  He  felt  now  comparatively  safe. 

They  reached  the  fort,  only  to  obtain  distant  glimpses  of  the 
Happy-go-Lucky ;  her  white  sails  spread  for  ocean,  and  already 
six  miles  from  the  town ;  tide  and  wind  sending  her  out  at  ten 
knots  an  hour.  The  fort,  of  two  guns,  had  succeeded  in  firing 
three  shots  —  quite  an  achievement :  one  shot  had  wounded  the 
ship's  sails,  and,  it  was  thought,  another  her  hull.  In  other  words, 
the  fort  was  a — a — a — (in  modern  parlance)  a  humbug  ! 

So  Florence  O'Sullivan  delivered  himself: — 

"  It 's  just  of  no  use  here,  your  honors  !  It  should  ne  yonder 
on  that  island,  covering  the  channel ;  and,  if  one  is  put  here,  it 
should  be  on  the  east  bank.  Here,  you  can  "have  but  one  fling  at 
an  enemy,  and  there's  an  end." 

It  happened,  not  long  afterward,  whether  from  this  event  and 
counsel  or  not,  that,  even  as  our  chef -de-police  suggested,  the  fort 
was  built  on  the  island,  and  he  himself  put  in  command. 

This  was  the  original  of  Fort  Sullivan,  afterward  Fort  Moul- 
trie  —  which  has  a  famous  history  of  its  own. 

It  was  broad  daylight  before  the  party  returned  to  the  house 
of  Governor  Quarry ;  and,  with  daylight,  began  the  beating  of 
drums,  and  the  array  of  the  posse  comitatus,  and  the  gathering  of 
the  militia.  The  town  was  put  under  martial  law.  There  was  a 
monstrous  hubbub. 

But  something  had  been  saved.  The  bet  I  masque  of  Mrs.  An 
derson  had  been  not  simply  a  success,  but  a  sensation  !  It  was 
the  town-talk  for  long  after ! 

It  rather  dashed  and  daunted  the  fair  and  fashionable  hostess, 
however,  when,  just  as  her  company  had  departed,  and  while  she 
was  chatting  gayly  with  Zulieme  over  the  events  of  the  night,  the 
door  was  rudely  assailed  by  thundering  raps ;  and,  as  it  opened, 
the  civil  officers  rushed  in,  laying  rude  hands  on  the  fair  Zulieme, 
arresting  her  as  a  pirate's  wife,  and  a  contrabandista  in  her  own 
proper  person. 

Even  as  she  was,  caparisoned  as  Titania,  mask  in  hand,  the 
dear,  silly  little  creature  was  made  to  go,  on  foot,  to  the  dwelling 


488  THE    CASSTQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

of  Governor  Quarry,  there  to  confront  the  said  dignitary,  with  his 
solemn  proprietary  council. 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  was  not  the  w:>man  to  abandon  her 
guest.  Whatever  her  vices  and  weaknesses,  the  woman  had  a 
soul !  She  accompanied  Zulieme,  resolved  to  share  her  fate  if 
necessary.  After  such  a  successful  party,  she  felt  no  little  of  the 
heroic  in  her ;  felt  grateful,  too,  to  her  guest,  for  having  helped 
to  make  her  experiment  a  success ;  felt  outraged  at  the  official 
indignity  put  upon  her,  and  was  altogether  in  a  condition  of  ex 
altation  to  say  eloquent  things  even  to  his  sainted  majesty  him 
self. 

When  first  arrested,  poor  little  Zulieme  was  confounded.  Never 
was  young  sinner  so  completely  taken  by  surprise.  Was  it  her 
quaint  garments  of  the  Fairy  Queen  that  were  guilty  ?  What 
was  it  ? 

"  But,  I  'm  a  woman,  sir !"  said  she  to  the  officer,  as  if  women 
had  some  special  immunities  for  evil. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  I  know  that !  That 's  what  I  'rest  you  for — • 
'ca'se  you  're  a  woman.  Ef  you  was  n't,  would  n't  have  nothin'  to 
say  to  you,  nohow." 

And  he  chuckled  with  perhaps  a  notion  of  some  fine  official 
humor  in  what  he  had  said. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean.  Charlotte  ?"  she  asked,  in  her  simpli 
city.  There  was  no  terror. 

"  It  means  that  the  governor  is  a  fool,  and  his  council  are  foola 
together  ;  that 's  what  it  means  !" 

"  Well,  that's  comin'  it  big,  I  must  say  '."  exclaimed  the  cl/icer, 
"But  come  along,  miss,  unless  you  wants  me  to  pick  you  up  and 
carry  you.  You  must  go  and  see  them  same  fools !" 

"  Must  I  go,  Charlotte  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,  we  must  go.  I  will  go  along  with  Jtu!  It 
amounts  to  nothing,  I  suppose.  It  is  some  nonsense  of  the  gov 
ernor  and  his  council,  who  had  better  be  in  their  beds,  ar.  so  many 
old  women,  than  arresting  young  women  as  pirates !" 

"  Ah  !  it  is  as  a  pirate  that  I  am  to  go  to  the  judge  !*'  And,  as 
she  spoke,  the  little  creature  rose  into  dignity  and  increase  of 
stature.  She  thought  to  herself: — 

"  Ah  !  they  would  seize  Harry  !  He  never  thought  they  would 
seize  me.  And  why  not  seize  me  as  well  as  Harry  ?  I  'm  Har- 


HOW   ZULIEME    BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  480 

ry's  wife.  I'm  as  much  pirate,  I'm  sure,  as  he  is!  I'll  show 
him  !  —  I  'm  not  afraid  !'' 

So  the  thought  ran  through  her  little  brain,  conferring  upon  it 
a  certain  increase  of  consequence.  She  would  show  Harry  she 
was  no  such  child  as  he  supposed  ! 

u  Well,  let  us  go,  Charlotte  !" 

And  she  sank  into  silence,  and  passively  submitted  to  the  ar 
rest.  Not  st  the  fair  hostess.  She  was  eloquent  with  indignation 
all  the  way  ! 

Meanwhile,  the  whole  town  was  astir.  Everybody  was  abroad. 
Everybody  saw  them  in  their  state  dresses.  We  really  forget 
what  was  the  costume  of  Mrs.  Anderson,  but  have  a  notion  that 
it  was  in  the  character  of  Zenobia  that  she  did  the  honors  that 
night.  We  will  assume  that  she  then  walked  the  street  as 
'  Zenobia,' with  the  lovely  little  'Queen  of  the  Fairies'  by  her 
side. 

The  news  came  startlingly  to  the  ears  of  our  two  cavaliers, 
Keppel  Craven  and  Cavendish.  They  were  just  about  to  disem 
barrass  themselves  of  their  fine  clothes. 

"  What,  the  senorita  arrested?     What  nonsense  !" 

"  And  as  the  wife  of  the  d — — d  pirate !" 

"  A  contrabandist^  /" 

The  silver-mines  of  the  one,  the  ten  thousand  pounds  of  the 
other,  would  not  suffer  them  to  sleep  at  such  an  hour.  It  might, 
it  must  be,  all  nonsense  —  some  ridiculous  mistake  of  the  police ! 
At  all  events,  they  must  do  their  devoirs  as  cavaliers.  They 
must  be  at  hand,  watchful  and  ready  to  assist  the  demoiselle  with 
whom  they  have  flirted ;  pay  proper  homage  to  the  hostess  who 
had  entertained  them  so  elegantly.  So,  changing  the  court  for 
mere  city  costume,  they  hurried  off  to  the  governor's  dwelling. 

When  Zulieme  and  Mrs.  Anderson  reached  the  residence  of 
the  governor,  it  was  sunrise.  Quarry  and  Morton  were  seated 
in  state,  grave  seigniors,  in  all  the  dignity  of  their  official  posi 
tion,  ready  for  their  reception.  There  was  a  crowd  already  col 
lected.  Curiosity  brought  a  goodly  number.  The  police  was 
stronger  in  the  governor's  presence  than  they  had  shown  them 
selves  in  the  field,  and  behaved  themselves  with  much  more  dig 
nity.  There  was  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  each  prepared  to  testify  to 
as  many  falsehoods  as  facts ;  for,  in  such  cases,  men  become  so 

21* 


490  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

enamored  of  their  own  conjectures,  that  the  mind  insists  upon 
them  as  facts,  and  the  subservient  memory  will  not  discredit  them. 
There  was  the  keen  and  restless  Stillwater,  alias  Sylvester,  prowl 
ing  about  like  a  young  shark  hungering  for  his  breakfast;  and 
there  was  Sproulls,  whose  bloody  and  bandaged  head  was  a  tragic 
volume  of  evidence  itself;  and  O'Sullivan  was  there,  with  a  cheek 
monstrously  blue  and  green  of  hue,  and  one  eye  so  black  and 
bunged,  that  you  might  read  the  whole  history  of  the  night  in  it ; 
and  there  were  many  others  who  had  something  to  say  or  to 
show. 

The  appearance  of  Zulieme  made  a  decided  impression  on  the 
company.  Her  strange  but  appropriate  costume ;  her  petite  but 
symmetrical  figure  ;  her  beauty  ;  and  the  very  childish,  infantile 
simplicity  of  her  features,  now  lifted  into  unwonted  character  by 
the  new  sense  of  importance  in  her  position  —  were  all  calculated 
to  produce  a  sympathetic  and  friendly  interest  in  her  judges,  who 
regarded  her  with  equal  curiosity  and  satisfaction.  The  govern 
or's  courtliness  and  pleasant  smile  were  not  withheld ;  and  the 
grave,  saturnine  Morton,  lifting  his  dark  brow,  gazed  intently  and 
•with  a  mild  interest  on  the  stranger,  who  seemed  indeed  a  fairy, 
fresh  from  the  forests,  whom  the  sun  had  lovingly  kissed,  and 
with  whose  wanton  hair  every  breeze  of  heaven  had  toyed  with 
tenderness. 

"  Be  seated,  ladies,"  said  the  governor.     "  We  are  sorry  to  be 
compelled  to  disquiet  you  ;  but  we  are  obliged,  by  a  painful  sense 
of  duty,  to  require  the  attendance  of  one  of  you,  at  least,  in  order 
that  we  may  ask  you  a  few  questions  which  concern  the  publi 
welfare." 

"  Answer  no  questions,  Zulieme,"  said  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  a 
whisper. 

Our  trader's  wife  might  have  done  well  as  a  lawyer  at  this  day, 
when  women  are  about  to  assert  their  rights  in  the  courts,  as  well 
as  in  courtship. 

"  You,  Mrs. ;  ah,  Mrs. " 

"  Anderson,  sir  —  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson,"  answered  the  lady 
to  whom  the  governor  was  addressing  eyes  and  voice,  while  un 
able  apparently  to  recall  her  name.  The  lady  was  somewhat 
piqued.  Her  name  forgotten  !  But  it  is  a  common  trick  with 
the  British,  when  they  affect  the  aristocratic,  to  forget  the  names 


HOW   ZULIEME   BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  491 

of  comparatively  obscure  people.  His  excellency  knew  that  of 
our  hostess  very  well.  Had  not  his  wife,  indeed,  visited  her  —  at 
least  on  one  occasion  ?  But  it  was  not  simply  an  affectation  of 
vanity  that  prompted  the  governor  to  forget.  It  was  matter  of 
policy  that  he  should  know  as  little  as  possible  of  the  lady  with 
whom  Zulieme  dwelt.  But  the  fair  Charlotte  did  not  give  him 
credit  for  his  policy ;  she  ascribed  it  to  official  pride,  and  resented 
it  accordingly.  She  was  wrong  in  this  instance. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  Mrs.  Anderson.  How  should  I  forget !  But,  Mrs. 
Anderson,  permit  me  to  say  that  we  have  no  requisition  on  you." 

"  No,  sir ;  but  the  Senorita  Zulieme  de  Montano  is  my  guest, 
sir ;  and  I  certainly  would  not  suffer  her  to  leave  my  house,  under 
this  most  humiliating  treatment,  without  giving  her  all  the  support 
in  my  power." 

"  Right,  madam,"  said  Morton  ;  "  and  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  not  be  present  at  this  examination,  which  I  trust  \\H1 
be  found  neither  hurtful  nor  disagreeable.  We  only  fancied  that 
an  officer  might  have  committed  the  mistake  of  doing  more  than 
his  warrant  authorized." 

The  lady  bowed,  somewhat  mollified.  The  governor  proceed 
ed  :— 

"  Your  name  is  said  to  be  Zulieme  de  Montano,  young  lady  ?' 

Zulieme  bowed. 

"  Pardon  me,  senorita,  but  you  are  a  Floridian,  I  am  told." 

"  A  Spaniard,  sirs.  My  father  and  mother  were  both  of  Cas 
tile." 

"  But  you  are  from  the  Spanish  province  of  Florida?" 

"  My  father  has  an  estate  in  Florida." 

"  You  are  from  thence  ?" 

"  Last !  I  was  born,  and  lived  long,  on  the  mountains  of  the 
isthmus." 

"  Suffer  me  to  ask,  senorita,  if  you  have  always  borne  the  name 
which  you  now  bear?" 

Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  gave  Zulieme  a  look.  It  was  enough. 
A  flush  passed  over  the  dark  cheeks  of  the  young  Spaniard ;  and 
she  rose  q-iickly,  but  with  subdued  and  quiet  manner. 

"  Senores,"  she  said,  approaching  the  governor  and  his  council 
lor — "  senores,  caballeros,  you  are  gentlemen  and  lords.  You 
ask  me  questions  which  I  do  not  want  to  answer.  It  may  do  me 


492  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   RlAWAH. 

hurt  to  answer  them,  and  I  will  not  lie.  I  do  not  know  what  you 
wish  to  do  with  me.  But  if  your  laws  require  me  to  die,  I  can 
die,  though  I  am  very  young  to  die.  But  ask  me  no  questions 
to  catch  my  tongue  !  If  you  think  harm  of  me,  tell  me  what  is 
the  offence  I  have  been  doing.  I  have  been  dancing  a  great  deal 
since  I  have  been  here,  and  did  not  know  —  perhaps  there  is  a 
law  against  dancing  ?  Some  people,  here,  tell  me  it  is  a  sin,  and 
against  the  laws  of  God.  I  did  not  know  that.  I  don't  believe 
it.  Our  people  did  not  teach  me  so.  But  it  may  be  against  the 
laws  of  your  people ;  and  I  must  die  for  it !  I  confess  I  have 
danced  a  great  deal.  If  there  is  anything  else  that  I  have  done 
against  your  laws,  tell  me,  and  I  will  answer.  Do  you  speak  to 
me  what  you  have  heard  against  me,  and  what  you  think  of  me, 
and  what  they  tell  you  I  have  done.  Tell  me  all,  and  I  will  an 
swer  you  if  I  can.  But  I  will  not  tell  you  more  than  I  can,  for 
there  may  be  some  snare  —  some  danger  to  my  soul !" 

The  simplicity  of  this  speech,  spoken  in  rather  broken  English, 
had  a  wonderful  effect.  The  governor  himself  smiled,' very  much 
amused ;  several  of  the  bystanders  laughed  outright.  Morton 
looked  with  a  greater  degree  of  interest  and  pity  on  the  young 
creature  than  before.  His  stern  visage  had  grown  sadly  sweet. 

"  Die  !"  said  the  governor  —  "  snare  your  soul,  my  dear  young 
woman  ?  What  could  put  such  a  notion  into  your  head  ?  As  for 
dancing,  it  is  not  yet  a  criminal  offence  by  our  laws ;  though,  I 
believe,  there  are  some  who  fancy  that  eternal  perdition  must  fol 
low  the  shaking  of  symmetrical  legs  to  the  sound  of  lively  music. 
No  !  the  charges  brought  against  you  —  and  there  are  charges  — 
are  of  very  different  character." 

He  paused. 

"  Tell  her  what  is  charged,  your  excellency,"  said  Morton. 
"  There  is  no  need  of  any  art  in  dealing  with  such  a  child  as 
this." 

The  governor  proceeded  with  his  counts : — 

"  It  is  charged,  seiiorita,  that  you  are  concerned  in  a  contraband 
trade—" 

"  Contraband  ?    What 's  that  ?" 

"  That  you  bring  goods  into  the  town  for  sale,  without  first 
paying  to  the  government  certain  dues  and  duties,  in  violation  of 
our  laws." 


HOW   ZULIEME    BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  493 

"  I  bring  goods  for  sale  ?  Me  !  Oh,  sir,  I  never  sold  anything 
in  my  life.  What  I  have  brought  here,  I  have  brought  to  give 
away." 

"  I  can  prove  that,  your  excellency,"  said  Mrs.  Perkins  Ander 
son. 

"  It  is  also  charged,  my  young  lady,  that  you  are  the  wife,  or 
companion,  of  the  notorious  pirate,  Harry  or  Henry  Calvert,  cap 
tain  of  the  cruiser  called  '  The  Happy-go-Lucky,'  or  '  The  Al 
meida,'  or  the  '  St.  George's  Dragon'  —  for  by  all  these  names  the 
vessel  is  reported  to  sail." 

Then  broke  out  the  woman-soul : — 

"  Harry  a  pirate  !  You  are  a  bad  man,  for  saying  it !  Harry 
is  a  fighting-man,  like  all  you  English — " 

She  was  about  to  add  "  brutes,"  for  it  had  become  a  somewhat 
familiar  epithet  with  her ;  but  a  warning  instinct  arrested  her  in 
the  speech.  But  what  she  had  said  sufficed  to  effect  an  instant 
change  in  all  countenances.  Mrs.  Anderson  clasped  her  hands 
together  in  despair ;  Sylvester  and  his  factotum,  the  express,  Fair- 
child,  lifted  fingers  and  eyebrows  in  exultation ;  the  governor 
looked  aghast.  In  an  instant,  Zulieme  saw  these  changes,  and, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Anderson,  she  murmured  — 

"  0  Charlotte,  what  have  I  said  ?" 

"  A  few  words  too  many,  my  dear." 

**  Have  I  done  anything  to  hurt  Harry  ?" 

"  Hardly  ;  but  something,  perhaps,  to  hurt  yourself." 

"  Ah !"  and  she  sighed  as  with  a  sense  of  relief. 

The  governor,  remembering  Calvert's  private  letter,  put  on  a 
triumphant  air,  and,  turning  to  Morton,  said  — 

"  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  ask  her  any  more  questions." 

"  Hardly ;  though,  with  the  fact  of  her  identity  established,  we 
gain  nothing.  I  know  no  law  which  makes  the  wife  of  a  pirate 
liable  for  his  offences." 

"  Oh,  no  !  surely  not,"  was  the  answer  —  the  governor  secretly 
leased  tc  see  that  Morton's  sympathies  were  with  the  woman. 
"  Still,  sir,  we  should  probe  the  matter  as  far  as  we  can." 

The  other  nodded.     "  As  you  please." 

"  It  is  very  clear,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  the  Harry  of  whom 
you  speak,  and  Harry  Calvert  of  the  Happy-go-Lucky,  are  the 
same  person." 


494  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

"  I  won't  say  any  more  !  I  am  a  foolish  thing,  and  do  n't  know 
what  I  say.  But  if  there  's  anything  against  Harry,  I  'm  ready 
to  answer  it.  If  he  's  a  pirate,  then  hang  me,  for  I  won't  deny  it. 
Harry's  my  own,  own  husband.  He's  been  married  to  me  a 
year ;  and  you  may  kill  rne  for  him  !  But  he 's  no  pirate  ;  but  a 
brave,  fighting,  good,  brute  Englishman — just  as  good  and  brav 
as  any  of  you  here  !  There,  now !  you  may  kill  me  when  yoi. 
like." 

Craven  and  Cavendish  looked  at  each  other,  and  groaned 
aloud. 

"  Ten  thousand  gone  !"  muttered  Cavendish. 

"  D — nation,  yes  !   and  my  silver-mines  !     Let 's  be  off,  Cav 
D — n  all  Spaniards,  and  pretty  senoritas,  for  ever  !'* 

And,  following  each  other,  as  unostentatiously  as  possible,  the 
stole  out  of  the  apartment. 

"  We  need  inquire  no  further,"  said  Quarry. 

"  Of  her  —  no  !     Call  up  your  other  witnesses." 

Sylvester,  Sproulls,  Gideon  Fairchild,  each  gave  his  testimony 
in  turn.  We  know  it  pretty  nearly  as  they  delivered  it,  allowing 
for  certain  natural  exaggerations,  in  which  they  coupled  with  the 
facts  the  usual  modicum  of  conjecture.  Zulieme  listened  to  their 
details  without  sign  of  interest  or  emotion.  She  did  not  see  the 
drift  of  much  of  it,  and  perhaps  did  not  see  the  harm  in  any. 
But  when,  on  a  sudden,  Sylvia,  the  mullattress,  who  had  been  ar 
rested,  was  also  brought  in,  manacled  —  for  she  had  darted  off  at  full 
speed  from  the  officer,  and  was  with  difficulty  retaken  —  and  made 
to  confront  her  mistress,  the  little  Zulieme  rose  again,  and,  look- 
ing  sternly  upon  her  judges,  said  : — 

"  This  is  my  slave,  my  lords,  caballeros,  and  gentlemen.  What 
has  she  done  ?  Why  is  she  chained  up  ?" 

"  She's  one  of  the  witnesses,"  replied  Fairchild. 

"  One  of  the  best  we  have,  too,"  added  Sylvester. 

"That's  unfortunate,"  observed  Morton,  "if  she  be  a  slave." 

"  You  a  witness  against  me,  Sylvia !"  said  Zulieme,  with  the 
saddest  reproach. 

"  Nebber,  missus  !     Who  say  dat  ?" 

"  I  say  it,"  answered  Fairchild. 

"  Missus,  do  n't  b'lieb  dem  buckrah  !  Dey  lie  fas'  as  squirrel 
tlimb  tree !  Look  yer,  missus  —  dey  catch  and  bring  me  yer, 


HOW   ZULIEME   BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  495 

I  run  ;  but  dey  catch  me,  and  put  dese  heaby  tings  on  my  ban'. 
I  no  want  for  come.  Dey  make  me  come.  Ef  you  say  so,  I 
won't  tell  'em  not'ing." 

"  There  's  a  way  to  make  you,"  said  Sylvester. 

Zulieme  looked  mournfully  at  the  mullattress,  who  was  now 
fairly  stifled  in  a  sea  of  sobbing,  but  she  remained  silent.  Some 
effort  was  made  to  move  Sylvia  to  renew  her  revelations,  but 
without  effect.  She  was  resolved  that  the  proper  virtue  lay  in 
emulating  her  lady  in  taciturnity. 

"  It  needs  not,"  said  Morton  ;  "  her  statement  will  be  valueless 
as  evidence.  Let  Mr.  Fairchild  state  what  he  knows,  and  even 
what  he  has  heard.  This  is  a  purely  desultory  examination. 
Stripped  of  all  unnecessary  matter,  there  may  be,  nay,  must  be, 
something  which  shall  be  evidence.  He  can  report  all  the  parties 
to  his  own  seizure  and  confinement  in  the  pirate-ship ;  what  he 
saw  there ;  and  what  he  heard  the  pirates  say  of  themselves.  If 
he  includes  in  it  what  the  slave  has  said,  it  will  not  much  matter : 
let  it  go  for  what  it  is  worth." 

And  Gideon  Fairchild  told  his  story.  He  was  prolix  in  all  his 
details,  with  the  exception  of  one  class  of  them ;  he  suppressed 
all  the  tender  passages  between  Sylvia  and  himself.  He  reported 
only  what  she  had  told  him  of  ship,  crew,  and  cargo.  She  was 
the  one  who  taught  him  the  true  character  of  the  cruiser ;  the 
name  of  her  captain ;  the  fact  that  his  wife  was  in  town,  and 
where ;  in  brief,  all  that  she  knew. 

"  O  wretch  !"  cried  Zulieme,  with  indignation. 

The  mullattress  broke  out  with  a  cry : — 

"  0  missus,  de  buckrah  lie  like  book  !  I  nebber  tell  'em  not'ing ; 
only  I  bin  so  want  for  see  you  and  be  wid  you  ;  and  when  he  tell 
me  he  will  bring  me  to  you,  and  den,  when  he  promise  for  marry 
me,  and  say  he  lub  me  so  much — " 

Here  Gideon  broke  out : — 

"  It 's  a  most  infamous,  lyin'  wench,  your  excellency !  Me 
narry  a  nigger !  me  !  And  here  everybody  knows  I  've  got  an 
angel-wife  of  my  own,  and  three  of  the  beautifullest  children! 
The  nigger 's  fool-mad,  your  excellency !" 

Gideon  was  perplexed  and  perspiring.  He  looked  about  him 
uneasily,  lest  Mrs.  Gideon  should  be  among  the  listeners.  There 
was  a  round  laugh  at  his  expense,  especially  when  Zulieme,  with 


496  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

the  prettiest  expression  of  scorn  an  the  world,  said  to  the  mulat- 
tress  — 

"  And  would  you  marry  such  a  creature  as  that  ?" 

"  Nebber,  missus  !  I  'spise  de  poor  buckrah  ;  I  'spise  'em  for 
true.  I  only  mek  b'lieb  I  guine  marry  'em,  'cause  I  want  'em  to 
bring  me  to  yer,  missus." 

There  was  another  laugh. 

"  This  looks  serious,  Fairchild,"  said  the  governor,  appearing 
ludicrously  grave.  "  The  negress  is  your  own  witness  !  Do  you 
say,  woman,  that  this  man  promised  to  marry  you  ?" 

"To  be  sure  him  promise,  maussa." 

"  It 's  nigger  evidence,  your  excellency,*'  responded  Fairchild 
"  she 's  the  lyin'est  blackguard  !" 

"  If  we  reject  it  on  either  score,  Master  Gideon,  we  must  reje 
all  that  we  get  from  her.     I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to  receive 
it  all.     We  shall  have  to  turn  you  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  churchwardens  and  —  your  wife!" 

"  Do  n't  say  so,  your  excellency  !" 

"  Whether  the  negress,  per  prochein  ami,  would  have  an  action 
against  Gideon  for  breach  of  promise?" 

The  governor  was  disposed  to  amuse  himself. 

Morton  frowned,  and  showed  impatience. 

"  Let  us  proceed,  your  excellency." 

"  We  have  got  through  —  got  evidence  enough,  certainly,  for 
commitment." 

"  Commitment !     The  point  is  one  to  require  a  law-officer, 
confess,  even  the  identification  of  this  woman,  as  the  wife  of  the 
criminal,  does  not  seem  to  me  to  establish  any  offence  on  her  part. 
I  don't  see  how  we  can  commit  her" 

"Except,  perhaps,  as  sailing  under  the  pirate-flag  —  assisting, 
abetting,  aiding,  counselling — " 

"  We  have  no  proof  of  that  fact !  We  do  not  find  her  sailing 
under  the  pirate-flag.  We  find  her  in  our  municipality,  and  only 
know  not  how  she  gets  here.  The  statement  of  the  woman  Syl 
via,  a  slave,  is  not  to  be  regarded." 

"  But  a  fair  and  reasonable  inference — " 

"  None,  such  as  this,  can  be  considered  in  capital  cases." 

But  we  need  not  pursue  the  discussion,  which  was  somewhat 
protracted.  While  it  was  in  full  progress,  Quarry  affecting  a 


HOW   ZULIEME   BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  497 

very  earnest  purpose  of  severity  and  extreme  strictness,  Sir  Ed 
ward  Berkeley  made  his  appearance. 

As  she  beheld  him,  Zulieme  started  with  extreme  emotion,  and 
whispered  — 

"  Charlotte,  tell  me,  who 's  he  ?" 

"  That 's  Sir  Edward  Berkeley,  one  of  the  councillors." 

"  He 's  so  like  Harry  !  oh,  so  like !  I  see  he  's  not  Harry  — 
but—" 

"  Certainly,  a  great  likeness."  And  the  ladies  whispered  to 
gether. 

The  governor  and  his  councillors  retired  to  consult  in  another 
apartment.  Sir  Edward  Berkeley  seemed  as  much  interested  in 
the  beautiful  and  artless  little  Spaniard  as  Morton  had  been ;  and 
when  the  governor  repeated  the  suggestion  of  commitment,  he  was 
indignant. 

"  Commit  such  a  creature  as  that  —  and  to  prison  !  Fie,  sir  — 
fie!" 

"  Oh  !  not  to  prison,  surely,"  said  the  governor ;  "  but  to  some 
custody,  in  which,  while  treated  well,  she  will  be  under  watch." 

Berkeley  shook  his  head. 

"  I  see  no  use  in  it." 

"  I  do  not  well  see  how  we  should  do  it,'f  observed  Morton  — 
"  how  we  should  be  justified.  There  is  positively  nothing  against 
the  woman.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  is  Calvert's  wife  —  per 
haps  mistress  —  but  there  is  no  reasonable  ground  for  supposing 
her  to  be  an  active  participant  in  his  criminal  proceedings.  She 
is  a  mere  child;  is  evidently  without  tact  or  cunning;  and  with 
just  as  little  faculty  for  business  of  any  sort.  To  employ  her, 
even  in  the  petty  practice  of  the  contraband  service,  would  be  just 
as  likely  as  not  to  ruin  all  the  profits  of  the  trade." 

"  Yet,  you  find,"  said  Quarry,  "  that,  at  the  very  time  she  ap 
pears  in  town,  the  town  becomes  flooded  with  foreign  goods  of 
strange  fabric  and  fashion ;  while  the  West-India  fruits,  in  great 
abundance,  are  to  be  had  —  when,  as  we  all  know,  no  West-Indian 
vessels  have  come  into  port." 

"  I  half  suspect,"  rejoined  Morton,  "  that,  in  the  greater  number 
of  cases,  these  make  their  way  in,  just  as  this  pirate  has  done,  and 
lie  perdu  high  up  Cooper  and  Ashley  rivers.  This  pirate  evi 
dently  knew  his  ground  —  the  soundings,  the  channel,  and  the 


4'.) 3  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH.  ^ 

proper  places  of  concealment.  We  can  build  nothing  against  the 
woman  on  this  sort  of  evidence.  Nay,  more ;  how  idle  to  talk  ot 
this  woman  being  the  agent  and  emissary,  when  your  own  chief 
of  police  and  all  his  officers  tell  you  of  the  town  being  full  of  pi 
rates  !  Your  own  proclamation  of  martial  law  is  grounded  upon 
the  necessity  derived  from  this  very  evidence.  And  they  tell  us> 
moreover,  of  boats  arriving  nightly  —  this  is  the  evidence  of  both 
Sylvester  and  Sproulls  —  both  of  whom,  by-the-way,  seem,  in  the 
course  of  their  practice,  to  have  known  rather  more  of  these  con 
traband  cruisers  than  becomes  honest  men." 

"Ay,  set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief!  But  that  reminds  me  to  say 
to  you,  gentlemen,  that  the  warrant  issued  for  the  arrest  of  the 
old  sailor,  Franks,  has  been  returned  '  non  est.1  He  is  off,  and 
all  his  chattels.  His  house,  which  was  a  sort  of  curiosity-shop,  is 
regularly  gutted.  He  has  probably  transferred  himself,  bag  and 
baggage,  to  the  pirate." 

"  We  must  not  be  surprised,"  said  Berkeley,  "  that  there  should 
be  so  many  in  the  town  who  sympathize  with  these  pirates.  It  is 
a  new  thing,  indeed,  among  us,  to  call  them  pirates.  Hitherto, 
they  have  been  —  however  in  conflict  with  the  laws  of  nations  — 
the  enemies  of  our  enemies  only,  and  sailing  their  craft  under  ab 
solute  commissions  from  the  crown-officers.  The  public  sympa 
thies,  in  all  the  colonies,  have  been  really  and  warmly  with  this 
fellow  Calvert,  for  his  famous  fight  with  the  '  Maria  del  Occident^ 
—  that  very  affair  which  the  Spanish  influence  at  the  English 
court  has  succeeded  in  making  an  act  of  piracy,  bringing  forth  the 
proclamation  which  we  have  just  published.  We  must  take  for 
granted  that  there  are  many  here  who  sympathize  with  these 
cruiser?.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  town  has  been  full  of  them  ; 
and,  with  their  boats  here  nightly  —  their  sailors,  their  agents,  in 
town  —  it  is  not  necessary  that  we  should  suspect  this  strangely- 
beautiful  little  creature  of  any  part  in  the  business  of  the  cruiser. 
She  is,  no  doubt,  as  she  alleges,  the  wife  of  the  captain,  who  has 
presumed  upon  the  sympathies  of  the  citizens  to  bring  her  here, 
that  she  might  enjoy  herself,  while  he  and  his  men  carried  on 
their  unlawful  operations  by  night." 

"  I  fully  agree  with  Sir  Edward  in  these  opinions,"  said  Mor 
ton.  "Still,  the  question  occurs,  'What  are  we  to  do  with  this 
woman  V  There  i?  something  in  the  idea  of  his  excellency,  that 


HOW   ZULTEME    BECAME    A    CAPTIVE.  499 

we  should  keep  her  in  some  sort  of  custody,  for  awhile  at  least ; 
in  order,  by  this  means,  to  obtain  some  control  of  her  husband. 
He  will,  no  doubt,  be  coming  to  look  after  her.  She  is  too  pretty 
a  prize  to  be  abandoned  by  a  man  of  taste." 

"  But  where  to  keep  her  ?     Our  prison — " 

"  Oh  !  do  n't  mention  that,  your  excellency,"  interrupted  Mor 
ton.  "  We  must  not  talk  of  prison  for  this  young  creature." 

"  I  '11  take  charge  of  her,"  said  Berkeley,  with  a  sudden  im 
pulse.  "  I  '11  be  her  custodian,  at  my  poor  forest  barony.  It  will 
not  be  easy,  on  the  part  of  the  pirate,  to  seek  her  there ;  and  if 
he  does,  I  have  a  good  stout  force  of  laborers,  all  of  whom  I  have 
armed,  and  he  will  not  find  smooth  sailing  to  make  his  approaches. 
She  shall* be  treated  with  tenderness  and  care,  but  closely  watched. 
I  confess,  keeping  her  here  in  town,  I  should  almost  fear  that  this 
pirate,  who  is  bold  enough  for  anything,  would  have  her  out  of 
your  prison,  or  out  of  any  private  custody,  if  he  had  to  bombard 
the  place  for  it." 

"And  we  have  seen  with  what  scorn  his  vessel  has  passed  our 
fart,  and  of  what  small  defence  the  fort  is  capable,"  responded 
Morton. 

"  Really,"  said  the  governor  to  Berkeley,  "your  offer  relieves 
us  from  a  dilemma ;  for,  though,  clear  that  she  should  be  kept  in 
custody  —  for  awhile  at  least  —  I  should  be  unwilling  to  send  her 
to  prison,  and  should  not  find  it  easy  to  provide  for  her  a  proper 
custodian." 

"  Well,  you  are  agreed  to  accept  my  offer  ?"  replied  Berkeley. 
"  I  am  glad  of  it !  I  have  somehow  conceived  a  sympathy  for 
this  strange  little  creature,  and  I  should  never  consent  to  any 
harsh  means  being  employed.  We  must  reconcile  her  to  my 
guardianship.  Leave  that  to  me,  gentlemen,  if  you  please ;  and 
I  trust  that  she  will  be  persuaded  to  accept  my  protection." 

The  council  adjourned  to  the  hall  where  the  ladies  and  the 
crowd  had  been  left,  impatient  of  the  long  delay. 

Our  cassique  of  Kiawah  immediately  joined  the  two  ladies. 

When  Zulienif  heard  him  out,  she  said  to  Mrs.  Anderson  — 

"  I  am  to  be  a  prisoner,  Charlotte,  for  Harry  ?     Is  that  it  ?*' 

"  Yes,  my  dear ;  not  exactly  a  prisoner,  if  I  understand  Sir 
Edward,  but—" 

"  No,  my  dear  young  lady,  not  exactly  a  prisoner ;  but  an  in- 


500  THE   CASSTQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

mate  of  my  family,  until  the  trouble  of  this  affair  shall  blow 
over." 

"Zulieme  looked  up,  simply,  and  said — 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  senor." 

To  Mrs.  Anderson  she  added,  sotto  voce : — 

"  I  would  not  have  gone  with  any  other !  They  should  have 
carried  me!  But  I  like  his  looks,  Charlotte.  He  is  so  good  — 
so  sweet !  And  he  looks  so  like  Harry !" 


ZULIEME'S   FIRST   SIGHT   OF   TFIE    BARONY.  501 


CHAPTER   XLVIIJ. 

ZULIEME'S  FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  BARONY. 

"  These  humors  of  the  children  be  not  strange." 

Old  Play. 

IF  we  have  properly  considered  the  light,  lively  temperament 
of  Zulieme  Calvert,  and  remember  the  child-life  which  she  has 
led,  we  shall  probably  be  somewhat  surprised  at  the  quiet  resig 
nation  with  which  she  gave  up  her  abode  with  the  fashionable 
Mrs.  Anderson.  One  would  think,  seeing  her  deportment,  that 
she  had  made  no  sacrifice.  She  had  no  tears.  She  seemed  to 
have  danced  herself  out.  She  was  subdued  and  pensive,  but  very 
calm.  There  was  a  secret  power  at  work  in  the  bosom  of  the 
little  woman,  unfelt  before,  which  sustained  heTI*  wonderfully. 
Mrs.  Anderson  was  quite  astonished.  She  made  many  lamenta 
tions.  We  could  give  a  chapter  of  garrulous  speech  which  she 
poured  forth  to  and  at  the  council  of  the  lords-proprietors,  and 
thrust  specially  into  the  ears  of  the  cassique  of  Kiawah.  But  we 
do  not  affect  this  sort  of  eloquence.  Mrs.  Anderson,  judging  from 
Zulieme's  seeming  stolidity,  thought  her  astonishingly  cold.  She 
could  find  tears,  as  well  as  eloquence,  at  their  enforced  separa 
tion  ;  Zulieme  neither.  What  she  said  was  curt  and  unostenta 
tious,  and  she  even  appeared  impatient  to  be  gone. 

"  It  do  n't  matter,  Charlotte,"  she  said ;  "  I  do  not  fear  what 
they  can  do  !  They  can  only  put  me  in  chains  !  If  they  kill  me 
what  then  ?  It  '11  be  just  like  youi  \  rute  English.  But  I  won't 
beg  them  or  pray  to  them,  and  they  sha'  n't  see  any  tears  of  mine. 
And  I  will  take  care  how  I  talk.  They  sha'  n't  hear  a  word  from 
me  which  shall  bring  trouble  to  Harry.  He  shall  find  that  I  am 
a  woman  now." 


502  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

Mrs.  Anderson  began  to  think  that  Harry  Calvert  knew  his 
ridiculous  little  wife  better  than  herself.  Certainly,  she  showed 
her  a  new  phase  of  her  character. 

It  was  only  when,  just  before  the  carriage  of  the  cassique  came 
to  take  her  away,  that  Zulieme  showed  anything  like  tears  or  pas 
sion.  But,  though  her  anger  was  roused,  her  firmness  was  not 
shaken  even  then  !  The  occasion  was  the  sudden  appearance  of 
Sylvia,  the  mulattress,  who  rushed  out  upon  her,  weeping  and 
shrieking,  and  imploring  to  be  taken  with  her.  Then  the  little 
woman  flushed  up  with  something  like  fury : — 

"  Take  her  away  !  She  shall  never  go  with  me  again  !  Oh, 
the  brute !  the  liar !  To  tell  everything !  To  try  and  bring 
Harry  to  the  gallows !  Do,  Charlotte,  have  her  flung  into  the 
sea !  oh,  do  !" 

"  No,  no  !  not  that,  Zulieme  !" 

"  Don't  let  her  come  nigh  we/" 

The  mulattress  flung  herself  at  her  feet,  and  renewed  her  cries 
and  protestations.  The  little  woman  seized  a  broomstick  (what 
a  weapon  for  a  heroine  !)  and,  but  for  the  interposition  of  Mrs. 
Perkins  Anderson,  who  was  quite  scandalized  by  such  an  unfemi- 
nine  demonstration,  would,  no  doubt,  have  belabored  the  waiting- 
maid  soundly. 

"  "Well,  takelier  away  —  send  her  off — drown  her  in  the  sea — 
give  her  away  —  take  her  yourself,  Charlotte,  if  you  will;  but 
never  let  her  show  herself  to  me  again  !" 

And  the  matter  was  finally  settled  after  this  fashion.  Mrs. 
Anderson  agreed,  to  oblige  Zulieme,  to  accept  the  gift ;  and  the 
affair  being  thus  understood,  Sylvia  promised  to  silence  her  afflic 
tion.  She  was  not  unwilling.  In  all  probability,  had  Zulieme 
been  anxious  to  take  her,  she  would  have  shown  herself  a  discon 
tent.  Like  her  mistress,  she  preferred  town  to  country  life; 
many  people  to  few ;  smart  company,  on  terra  firma,  to  tary  sail 
ors  aboard  ship ;  and  she  was  already  prepossessed  with  Mrs. 
Perkins  Anderson,  and  had  learned  to  fancy  that  Charleston  was 
a  very  tolerable  place,  though  her  tender  affections  had  been  so 
grievously  mortified  in  it  by  the  loose  principles  of  Gideon  Fair- 
child. 

It  was  just  as  this  affair  was  settled,  that  the  stately  carriage- 
and-four  of  the  cassique  of  Kiawah,  bearing  the  family  crest,  with 


ZULIEME'S  FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  BARONY.          503 

its  French  motto,  " Dieu  avec  nous'''  drove  up  to  the  entrance  — 
the  cassique  the  sole  occupant.  There  were  two  outriders  in 
livery. 

It  was  a  pleasurable  reflection  to  Mrs.  Perkins  Anderson  that 
the  carriage  of  one  of  the  local  barons  should  stand  at  her  door, 
no  matter  what  the  occasion.  She  contrived  to  delay  its  waiting 
as  long  as  possible ;  and  for  long  afterward  it  was  her  wont  to 
say,  whenever  the  cassique  was  referred  to  — 

"  Ah  !  he  was  a  fine  gentleman.  His  coach  was  frequently  at 
my  door.  He  was  a  favorite  here  ;  and  when  he  came,  he  seemed 
quite  unwilling  to  depart :  he  made  long  visits." 

We  need  scarcely  mention  that,  in  removing  Zulieme,  the  cas 
sique  "  did  his  spiriting"  with  all  courtesy  and  gentleness.  He 
could  not  altogether  prevent  her  from  feeling  that  she  was  some 
thing  of  a  prisoner.  The  fact  was  patent  in  that  of  her  removal. 
But,  neither  in  look,  nor  word,  nor  action,  did  he  suffer  her  to  feel 
that  she  was  likely  to  be  annoyed  in  her  duresse,  or  that  it  would 
be  other  than  was  quite  consistent  with  her  claims  as  a  wife,  a 
woman,  and  a  lady.  He  was  tender  and  solicitous ;  awaited  her 
moods  with  patience ;  and,  when  he  lifted  her  into  the  carriage,  it 
was  with  the  studious  observances  of  the  nicest  preux  chevalier 
of  the  time  of  Philip  Sidney. 

It  is  true  that  Zulieme  was  somewhat  awed  by  this  treatment, 
and  by  the  sad  looks  and  dignified  grace  of  the  cassique.  She 
had  been  at  first  a  little  terrified,  when  brought  before  the  coun 
cil.  It  was  only  when  she  \vas  taught  how  unwittingly  her  tongue 
had  committed  her  husband,  that  she  recovered  her  composure, 
and  became  lifted  into  resolution.  Still  she  felt  an  involuntary 
disquiet,  under  the  eye  of  the  cassique,  which  was  accorded  rather 
to  his  individual  than  his  official  character.  But  this  feeling  had 
no  kin  to  fear.  Having  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  a  hostage 
for  Harry,  and  possibly  might  be  a  sacrifice,  she  'rose  to  a  sense 
of  dignity  with  the  sense  of  danger,  which  changed,  for  the  time, 
her  whole  demeanor.  Levity  had  given  place  to  pride ;  and  it 
was  rather  amusing  than  impressive,  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Ander 
son,  to  see  the  stateliness  and  dignity  which  now,  in  the  bearing 
of  the  little  woman,  took  the  place  of  her  former  kitten-playful 
ness.  It  was  really  comical  to  behold  such  resolved  looks,  such  a 
lofty  carriage,  so  much  reserve  and  dignity,  in  the  conduct  of  one 


504  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

so  very  petite,  and  whom  she  had  been  accustomed  to  see  only  in 
the  character  of  the  ballet-girl.  She  could  scarcely  keep  from 
laughter  as  she  saw  it.  She  laughed  -:\t  it  a  thousand  times  after. 

But  the  parting  took  place  after  many  delays.  Tears  and  many 
words  constituted  the  demonstration  of  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Char 
lotte.  Zulieme  had  no  tears,  and  but  few  words ;  but  these  were 
proper,  simple,  graceful,  and  dignified.  She  thanked  her  hostess 
gratefully  for  her  care  and  kindness,  and  promised  to  remember 
all.  As  the  two  embraced,  Mrs.  Anderson  whispered  — 

"  Oh !  what  shall  I  say  from  you  to  Craven  and  Cavendish  ? 
They  will  be  so  wretched  I" 

"  Say  ?    Nothing  !     What  have  I  to  say  to  them,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Ah,  Zulieme,  they  were  both  so  very  fond  of  you !" 

"  They  are  both  very  foolish  fellows,  then ;  for  I  have  no  fond 
ness  for  them  *  Tell  them  nothing !" 

And  when  she  said  this,  her  little,  pulpy  lips  put  on  the  smallest 
possible  curl  of  contempt,  while  her  eye  looked  as  coldly  and  in 
differently  into  that  of  Charlotte  as  if  she  scarcely  remembered 
the  parties  spoken  of.  The  amiable  hostess  sighed  gently.  Slie 
felt  that  some  of  her  calculations  had  been  made  in  vain.  Alto 
gether,  the  little  child-wife  was  a  little  problem.  But  the  two 
parted,  tenderly  enough.  Zulieme  had  absolutely  shared  her 
wardrobe  with  her  hostess,  who,  whatever  her  weaknesses,  what 
ever  the  wickedness  of  her  designs  —  of  which  Zulieme  knew 
nothing  —  had  treated  her  with  great  and  affectionate  considera 
tion  of  manner.  They  parted,  and  the  cassique  lifted  Zulieme 
into  the  carriage ;  and,  at  a  wave  of  the  hand,  the  coachman 
smacked  his  whip,  postillion-fashion,  and  the  carriage  whirled 
away  in  a  cloud  of  dust  —  the  two  outriders  putting  their  horses 
into  a  canter  to  keep  up  with  the  vehicle. 

That  night  Mrs.  Anderson  received  no  company.  Mrs.  Calder 
Carpenter  did."  But  neither  Cavendish  nor  Craven  was  present. 
Of  course,  there  was  any  amount  of  scandal  and  conjecture 
touching  the  wonderful  events  of  the  previous  night  and  iay ; 
but  the  result  of  all  was  favorable  to  the  Anderson.  She  had 
certainly  caused  a  sensation  —  which  is  always  the  ne  plus  ultra 
of  the  fashionable  world  —  for  good  or  evil  matters  little  !  And, 
by-the-way,  public  opinion  in  Charleston  was  hardly  so  unfavor 
able  to  Calvert,  "the  don-destroyer,"  as  to  suffer  his  little  wife  to 


ZULIEME'S    FIRST    SIGHT   OF   THE   BARONY.  505 

be  disparaged.  Zulieme  had  won  upon  the  circles  which  she  had 
penetrated. 

Poor  Zulieme !  she  sat  back  in  the  cassique's  carriage,  perched 
proudly  on  her  dignity  !  Was  she  not  doing  penance  for  her  hus 
band  ?  Was  she  not  a  martyr  —  likely  to  be  sacrificed  for  him  ? 
The  fancy  made  her  very  proud  !  She  was  no  longer  a  kitten ! 
Let  us  add  that  there  was  another  reason  —  which  must  remain  a 
secret  a  little  longer  —  which  added  to  her  strength  and  dignity, 
and  which  rendered  her  so  indifferent,  if  not  contemptuous,  when 
Charlotte  Anderson  reminded  her  of  those  two  popinjays,  Craven 
and  Cavendish.  She  brooded  over  this  secret  of  her  own  —  she 
never  breathed  it  to  her  hostess  even  —  with  no  little  satisfaction. 
Briefly,  she  had  made  a  long  stride,  in  a  single  moment,  from 
girlhood  to  womanhood.  But  of  all  this,  hereafter.  It  is  a  secret 
that  will  keep.  Zulieme  will  tell  it  to  but  one ! 

The  cassique  of  Kiawah  is  already  known  to  us,  and  we  may 
well  conceive  that  he  bore  himself  toward  the  little  wife  of  the 
famous  corsair  with  all  proper  kindliness.  But  it  was  only  when 
he  felt  the  necessity  of  soothing  her  mind,  and  reconciling  her  to 
her  condition  of  captivity,  that  he  began  to  perceive  how  awk 
ward  his  situation  was  as  custodian.  What  sort  of  custodian 
could  he  be,  with  a  household  in  such  a  condition  as  was  his  ? 
His  wife  —  it  was  agony  to  think  of  her !  Her  mother  —  it  was 
with  anger  that  he  thought  of  her  !  How  could  he  make  his  cap 
tive  comfortable  in  such  condition  of  his  household  ?  He  had  not 
thought  of  this  before.  Born  to  wealth  —  accustomed  to  have  his 
will,  and  command  the  service,  even  as  he  wished  it  —  he  sudden 
ly  felt  that  he  had  no  service,  no  resources,  to  meet  his  present 
requisition.  His  prisoner  —  a  woman,  young,  seemingly  artless, 
and  of  peculiar  characteristics  —  would  almost  be  companionless. 
He  had  spoken,  in  council,  from  a  natural  impulse,  and  without 
due  reflection.  His  instincts  had  moved  him.  He  had  been 
touched  by  the  child-simplicity  of  the  young  wife  of  the  corsair, 
and  had  undertaken  to  reconcile  two  objects :  to  keep  her  in  secu 
rity,  from  the  possible  attempts  of  the  corsair  himself — who,  it 
was  thought,  would  scarcely  venture  to  penetrate  the  country ; 
and  to  keep  her  from  the  humiliations  of  a  common  dungeon.  He 
was  worried,  in  no  small  degree,  at  the  task  he  had  undertaken, 
and  the  more  he  thought  of  it ;  but,  like  a  true  knight,  sans  peur 

22 


506  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

et  sans  reproche,  he  prepared  to  do  his  devoir,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  God's  favor  and  the  chapter  of  chances. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  he  endeavored  to  beguile  the  route  for 
his  companion,  by  gentle  and  courteous  conversation.  The  region 
through  which  they  had  to  pass  was  not  suggestive  of  agreeable 
topics.  As  we  know,  however  beautiful  to  the  eye  which  is  "  to 
the  manner  born,"  it  was  lacking  in  all  salient  essentials  of  the 
picturesque.  It  was  without  form,  though  far  from  voi'd.  There 
were  no  great  heights ;  no  striking  inequalities ;  only  vast  tracts 
of  forest,  with  brief  stretches  of  road,  so  closed  in  on  every  hand, 
that  there  was  no  beyond.  True,  the  season  was  one  of  flowers 
and  fruits.  There  are  green  leaves,  a  glorious  foliage ;  blossoms 
that  were  sweet  upon  the  air ;  colossal  trees,  that  made  cathedral- 
shadows  all  around ;  dense  masses  of  leaf  and  flower ;  vines  and 
shrubs :  but  the  eye  naturally  grew  weary  of  the  dead  levels  and 
the  uniformity,  which  finally  showed  as  one  great  waste  !  Yet 
had  he  little  else  of  which  to  speak ;  and  Zulieme,  he  soon  found, 
had  no  eye  for  scenery.  Besides,  she  had  seen  the  great  mount 
ains  which  divide  the  seas,  Pacific  and  Atlantic.  And  he  quickly 
discovered  that  she  had  not  the  soul  for  that  beauty  which  abounds 
in  the  instincts  of  art.  She  had  had  no  cultivation,  and  the  origi 
nal  soil  of  mind  had  received  no  seeds  from  Nature  which  a  genial 
care  could  make  to  grow,  as  under  the  mere  waving  of  the  wand 
of  Thought.  There  was  no  possible  point  of  contact  between  the 
souls  of  the  two.  Zulieme  had  no  thoughts,  no  imagination,  hardly 
any  fancies ;  scarcely  more  than  the  little  bush-bird  which  hops 
from  twig  to  twig,  and  never  feels  an  aspiration  to  soar.  Curious 
enough  in  respect  to  her  husband,  the  corsair,  our  cassique  was 
yet  too  much  of  the  gentleman  to  touch  upon  this  subject.  But, 
as  a  gentleman,  he  wearied  himself,  sore  and  sick  at  heart  as  he 
was,  in  the  effort  to  amuse  her.  But  all  in  vain.  She  looked 
kindly  into  his  eyes  —  almost  reverentially.  Her  own  instincts 
taught  her  that  he  was  striving  to  please  and  amuse ;  but  she 
could  make  no  response ;  and  he  asked  himself — 

"  How  is  it  that  education  fails  us,  even  when  we  aim  to  please, 
and  in  the  case  of  those  who  are  evi  lently  so  far  below  us  in  en 
dowment  and  acquisition  ?" 

He  did  not  remember  that  his  own  heart  was  ill  at  ease,  and 
that  his  labors  were  those  only  of  the  mind.  He  did  not  forget, 


ZULIEME'S    FIRST   SIGHT   OF   THE    BARONY.  507 

it  is  true,  that  there  was  another  reason  for  his  failure.  He  did 
not  dare  to  approach  the  very  topics  upon  which  her  own  mind 
and  heart  were  brooding.  There  is  a  point  of  contact  for  all  hu 
manity,  which  will,  at  some  moments,  bring  together  the  loftiest 
and  lowest ;  but  this  can  only  be  found  where  the  relations  be 
tween  the  parties  are  such  as  leave  both  in  comparative  freedom. 
Here,  and  now,  both  were  under  constraint,  and  from  a  variety  of 
causes.  At  length  the  cassique  gave  up  the  effort,  and  sank  back 
in  the  carriage,  silent  and  forgetful.  In  his  forgetfulness  he 
sighed,  and  such  a  sigh  !  No  sigh  that  Zulieme  ever  heard  was 
more  deep,  more  expressive  of  mortal  anguish.  She  watched 
him  obliquely,  with  a  growing  sympathy ;  and,  with  every  glance, 
she  thought  — 

"  How  like  to  Harry  !" 

She  was  awed  by  him,  no  doubt.  A  noble  earnestness  of  char 
acter,  coupled  with  an  evident  sorrow,  borne  with  manliness,  must 
always  compel  the  respectful  sympathies  of  the  pure  and  ingenu 
ous.  She  could  give  the  cassique  credit  as  a  noble  gentleman, 
even  while  she  remembered  that  he  was  her  jailer ;  and,  in  some 
degree,  she  conjectured  the  truth  —  that  he  had  become  her  jailer 
only  to  save  and  spare  her  those  humiliations  which  must  have 
followed  her  detention  in  the  town.  She  watched  and  studied  her 
companion  in  silence,  but  with  a  momently-growing  sympathy. 
He  was  so  sad ;  his  looks  were  so  grand,  yet  so  gentle ;  and  he 
was  "so  like  Harry  !"  And,  even  as  she  watched  and  mused,  the 
cassique  forgot  that  she  was  present  —  that  he  had  any  compan 
ion,  any  auditor ;  and  the  deep  sigh  became  a  deeper  groan,  and 
the  bosom  of  the  strong  man  heaved  with  sonvulsive  emotions, 
that  distended  his  broad  breast  and  shook  his  powerful  frame; 
and,  in  his  anguish  and  oblivion,  the  big  tears  gushed  from  his 
eyes,  and  lie  moaned  aloud  in  syllables  that  startled  the  keen, 
quick  consciousness  of  his  companion  : — 

"  Olive  !  Olive  !     Would  to  God  I  could  die  for  thee,  Olive  !" 

"  Olive  !"  murmured  Zuiieme  to  herself,  looking  more  earnestly 
into  his  eyes  ;  "  that  name  !" 

Another  big  groan  from  the  laboring  breast;  and  the  child- 
woman  forgot  her  curiosity  in  her  sympathies,  and  laid  her  little 
band  upon  t\e  cassique's  arm,  while  she  said,  in  her  softest  man 
ner — 


508  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Ah  !  senor,  my  lord  —  I  am  sorry  that  you  so  suffer  !" 

He  started  wildly  at  the  touch  and  voice. 

"Me,  child!    Suffer!     I  suffer?" 

And  he  tried  to  smile ;  and,  in  the  effort,  he  became  conscious 
of  the  big  tears  still  rolling  down  his  cheek ;  and  then  his  cheek 
was  flushed  with  shame. 

"  I  have  forgotten  myself,  my  dear  young  lady.  Pray,  pardon 
me.  My  thoughts  wandered  far  away." 

"  Ah,  sir,  you  groaned  so  bitterly !" 

"  It  was  not  well  to  groan  —  not  wise,  nor  courteous,  my  dear 
young  lady ;  and  I  feel  ashamed  that  I  could  so  entirely  forget 
your  presence.  Yet  it  is,  perhaps,  just  as  well  that  I  should 
do  so.  It  enables  me  to  prepare  you  for  a  sad  household.  I 
have  taken  you  with  me,  my  child,  not  to  a  pleasant  abiding- 
place,  but  to  a  safe  one  —  one  where  you  will  find  little  to  please 
or  to  amuse  you ;  nay,  where  you  may  see  things  which  shall 
sadden  your  young  heart :  but  you  will  find  protection,  and  a  ten 
der  care,  which  shall  not  wound  or  vex  you,  until  such  time  as 
the  council  shall  choose  to  set  you  entirely  free.  I  wish  to  be 
kind  to  you,  young  lady,  and  to  hold  you  under  guardianship, 
rather  than  in  bonds." 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,  senor,  my  lord,"  was  the  re 
ply,  in  rather  more  broken  English  than  usual,  "  and  I  thank  you, 
senor,  and  Harry  will  thank  you  too ;  but  tell  me  how  long  you 
mean  that  I  should  stay  with  you." 

"  Ah  !  that  I  can  not  yet  say ;  for  it  does  not  lie  with  me 
wholly :  but  I  will  do  my  best,  so  that  you  shall  be  free  as  soon 
as  it  is  possible.  The  trouble  lies  in  this :  if  free,  whither  would 
you  go?  Your  husband  is  under  ban  of  outlawry.  He  will 
hardly  come  hither.  He  knows  not  where  you  are.  He  will 
scarcely  venture  again  to  visit  Charleston,  for  the  danger  awaits 
him  there.  Your  case  is  one  of  great  difficulty,  unless  he  can 
procure  the  king's  pardon,  which,  for  your  sake,  and  somewhat  for 
his  own,  I  shall  strive  to  get  for  him." 

"  Harry  will  not  wait  for  a  king's  pardon.  He  will  come  for 
me  anywhere.  Harry  does  not  love  me  much,  but  he  will  fight 
for  me.  He  is  not  afraid  to  come  to  Charleston.  Why,  if  Harry 
was  so  minded,  he  would  bring  his  ship  and  fight  all  the  town !" 

The  cassique  mused  at  the  little  wife's  confidence  in  her  hu? 


ZULIEME'S   FIRST   SIGHT   OF   THE   BARONY.  50& 

band's  courage  and  prowess ;  but  the  more  he  mused,  the  moro 
sure  he  felt  that  the  corsair  would  not  find  it  hard  to  pelt  the  walls 
of  Charleston  about  the  ears  of  its  people.  But  of  this  he  said 
nothing.  Only,  being  something  curious,  he  asked  — 

"  But  why  do  you  say  that  your  husband  does  not  love  you 
much  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  suppose  he  loves  me  as  much  as  he  loves  anybody"  — 
then  a  pause  —  "  except  one,  perhaps." 

"  And  who  is  she  ?    For  it  is  a  lady,  I  suppose." 

«Yes!" — and,  this  said,  the  little  wife  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
the  cassique  earnestly  and  sadly,  then  added  —  "but  I  must  not 
tell  her  name  to  you" 

She  had  almost  told  it. 

"  And  why  not  to  me  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  must  tell  it  to  nobody.     It  is  Harry's  secret." 

"I  would  I  knew  your  husband,  young  lady.  Though  out 
lawed,  I  like  what  I  have  heard  of  him.  I  like  him  for  his 
deeds." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  would  like  him  bet 
ter  if  you  knew  him,  though  he  is  so  grand  and  proud,  and  so 
cold  !  And  then,  he  looks  so  very  much  like  you,  senor !" 

"  Like  me  !  Ah  !  I  would  I  knew  him.  I  will  try  to  get  his 
pardon,  at  all  events." 

"  Thank  you,  senor ;  but  Harry  will  not  wait  for  that !  He 
will  have  me,  I  know  it,  as  soon  as  he  can  find  me.  He  will  take 
me  out  of  your  deepest  dungeons." 

"  Oh  !  you  must  not  speak  of  dungeons  at  Kiawah,  my  child. 
It  is  full  of  sorrow,  and  death  hangs  over  it  like"  a  thunder-cloud 
ready  to  burst :  but  there  are  no  bonds ;  and  you  shall  find  noth 
ing  but  tenderness,  even  if  there  be  no  love. . . .  Ha  !  look  there ! 
There  is  one  of  our  dear  little  ones  of  Kiawah.  That  is  my 
wife's  sister  and  mine  —  our  dear  little  pet,  Grace  Masterton. 
She  is  a  sweet  child,  but  a  child  only." 

And  he  pointed  to  a  group  —  Grace  Masterton,  and  the  Indian 
hunter,  Iswattee,  with  a  fawn  that  they  were  taming  by  the  road 
side,  within  one  of  the  first  enclosures  of  the  barony. 

k<  A  child !  you  call  that  a  child  ?"  said  Zulieme.  "  Why,  she 
is  as  big  as  me !" 

The  casrsique  smiled  sadly. 


510  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  Yes,  but  a  child  nevertheless." 

"  Let  me  get  out  and  play  with  her !  She  's  a  beautiful  crea 
ture  ;  and  the  red  Indian  boy ;  and  the  little  deer  ;  oh  !  thoy  all 
together  look  like  a  picture  I  have  seen." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  a  picture,"  said  the  cassique ;  and,  at  his  com 
mand,  the  carriage  stopped.  By  this  time,  the  rolling  of  the 
wheels  had  reached  the  ears  of  the  group ;  and  Grace  had  leaped 
the  fence,  and  darted  toward  it,  crying  — 

"  Is  it  you,  brother  !"  Then,  seeing  the  strange  lady,  she  hung 
back,  abashed.  The  young  Indian  did  not  move  from  his  place, 
but  appeared  to  busy  himself  with  his  fawn.  He  did  not  even 
look  out  toward  the  carriage,  preserving  well  that  stolidity  of  de 
meanor —  that  show  of  incuriousness  —  which  is  the  usual  charac 
teristic  of  the  red  man.  But,  from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  had 
already,  at  a  single  glance,  taken  in  the  whole  party ;  and  even 
before  Grace  had  leaped  the  fence,  he  had  seen  that  there  was  a 
strange  lady  in  the  carriage. 

For  the  first  few  moments,  Zulieme  had  become  a  child  again. 
She  had  forgotten  her  dignity  —  forgotten  the  pride  which  had  re 
minded  her,  ever  and  anon  throughout  the  journey,  that  she  was  a 
prisoner  —  a  hostage  for  her  husband.  The  sight  of  Grace,  a  tall, 
fair  English  girl,  with  bright  eye  and  tresses  floating  free  ;  the  half- 
tamed  fawn  ;  the  Indian  boy,  in  his  picturesque  costume  —  fringed 
hunting-shirt,  mockasons,  leggins,  baldric  over  the  shoulders,  fur 
cap  and  white  eagle-feather,  and  the  long,  black,  straight  hair, 
which  hung  down  over  his  neck  —  this  group  suggested  to  Zu 
lieme  the  idea  of  play  and  sport.  It  was,  at  least,  a  relief  to 
escape  from  the  close  carriage,  and  feel  herself  on  the  greensward, 
and  under  embowering  trees;  and  she  cried  out  — 

"  Oh  !  let  me  get  out,  if  you  please." 

Then  Grace  seconded  the  entreaty,  saying  — 

"  Oh  !  yes,  do,  dear  brother ;  let  the  little  girl  get  out  and  come 
with  me.  I  'm  so  glad  you  've  brought  her  !" 

The  cassique  good-naturedly  ordered  the  door  to  be  opened. 
But  Zulieme  had  changed  her  mind.  She  had  resumed  her  dig 
nities —  had  been  reminded  of  them  all  by  the  one  little  sentence 
spoken  by  Grace. 

"  Little  girl !"  quoth  she  to  herself,  looking  proudly.  "  Ah  !  if 
they  but  knew  !" 


ZULIEME'S    FIRST    SIGHT    OF   THE    BARONY.  511 

"  Will  you  alight,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  cassique,  mu 
sing  upon  the  sudden  change  in  all  her  features. 

"No,  thank  you,  senor;  I  will  go  on." 

"  If  you  will  alight,"  said  he,  "  the  carriage  will  remain,  and 
bring  you  up  with  my  little  sister,  when  you  are  prepared  to 
come.  It  is  now  but  a  short  distance  to  the  settlement,  and  I 
would  walk  among  my  workmen.  I  prefer  to  walk." 

"  Do  so,  senor ;  but,  if  you  please,  I  will  not  now  get  out." 

Then,  finding  it  of  no  avail  to  press  her,  the  cassique  alighted 
himself,  and  lifted  Grace  into  the  vehicle,  and  bade  her  be  good 
friends  of  the  young  lady,  who,  he  added  impressively,  "  is  the 
wife  of  Captain  Calvert." 

"  Wife  !"  murmured  Grace  ;  and  with  a  curious  eye  she  regard 
ed  Zulieme  as  she  took  her  seat  beside  her.  And  thus,  the  two 
together,  the  carriage  drove  away.  Then,  as  they  rode,  Grace 
gently  took  the  hand  of  Zulieme,  and  pressed  it,  and  said : — 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  my  good  brother  has  brought  you  here ;  for 
I  am  so  lonesome  !  We  will  be  so  happy  together !" 

But,  for  a  part  of  the  ride,  Zulieme  would  not  look  her  willing 
ness  to  be  happy,  and  Grace  began  to  think  her  strangely  churl 
ish.  But  the  little  wife  thawed  after  awhile ;  and,  before  the  car 
riage  reached  the  dwelling,  she  and  Grace  had  become  very  tol 
erable  companions :  albeit  Zulieme  had  sundry  returns  of  her 
pride  and  dignity,  especially  when  she  thought  of  her  nice  little 
secret ;  and  when  she  remembered  that  she  was  at  the  barony  on 
compulsion,  and  as  the  hostage  for  her  husband ! 


512  THE    CASSTQUE    OF    KTAWAH. 


?f » 


CHAPTER   XL  IX. 

ISWATTEE. 

"  How  terrible  this  duty  to  be  done; 
This  trial  to  be  passed !     Yet  must  I  brave  it. 

THE  cassique,  meanwhile,  having  alighted  from  the  carriage, 
approached  the  Indian  boy,  where  he  stood  busy  with  the  fawn, 
whispering  in  her  ear,  and  practising  those  arts  of  the  woodman 
by  which  he  subdues  the  wild  animal  to  tameness.  And,  as  he 
drew  nigh,  the  cassique  became  suddenly  conscious  of  a  great 
change  which  had  taken  place  in  the  appearance  of  the  youth. 
He  perceived  that  he  was  grown  thin,  even  to  meagerness ;  that 
his  eyes,  though  very  bright,  as  ever,  seemed  to  shine  forth  out  of 
hollows ;  and  that  his  cheeks  were  greatly  sunken.  Now,  this 
change  had  been  growing  for  some  time ;  but  the  cassique  had 
been  too  much  busied  with  his  own  cares  to  note  those  of  his  for 
ester.  He  had  been  content  to  believe  that  the  boy  had  been 
well  kept  and  tendered,  and  that  he  performed  skilfully  his  sylvan 
duties ;  so  that  he  held  it  sure  that  all  went  well  with  him.  In 
sooth,  if  he  thought  of  him,  at  any  time,  it  was  only  to  wonder  at 
the  marvellous  skill  which  he  displayed  in  taking,  snaring,  or 
slaughtering,  his  game.  Never  once,  while  he  was  with  the  cas- 
ique,  was  the  venison  wanting  to  his  employer's  table  ;  and  some- 
imes  he  brought  home  great  fat  turkeys,  and  ducks  of  such  size 
and  flavor  as  might  not  be  equalled  in  all  Europe.  He  wist  not, 
indeed,  that  the  young  man  occasionally  got  help  from  his  breth 
ren  ;  for  his  sire,  old  Cussoboe,  ever  and  anon,  through  some  run 
ners  of  his  people,  helped  him  to  a  buck,  or  a  great  turkey,  and 
to  ducks  which  he  had  himself  shot  with  his  arrows,  along  ths 


1SWATTEE.  613 

great  bays  and  estuaries  which  lie,  in  this  country,  everywhere 
close  beside  the  sea. 

But,  now  that  the  eyes  of  the  cassique  were  suddenly  drawn 
upon  the  boy,  and  he  saw  truly  his  condition  —  how  meagre  he 
was  of  frame,  how  sunken  of  eye  and  cheek,  and  what  a  deep  sor 
row  seemed  to  rest  upon  his  visage  —  he  began  to  fear  lest  he 
had  suffered  some  despite  at  the  hands  of  his  people.  So  he  said 
to  him : — 

"  Iswattee,  my  lad,  what  ails  you  ?  You  look  not  well.  Are 
you  sick?  Is  there  hurt  or  grievance  which  I  may  redress? 
Tell  me,  my  good  boy ;  and  remember,  I  must  be  to  you  a  father 
in  the  absence  of  your  own." 

So  he  laid  hands  upon  the  boy,  and  gazed  kindlily  into  his 
face ;  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  were  sweet  and  soothing,  even  as 
his  words  were  kind.  But  the  boy  cast  his  eyes  down  to  the 
earth,  and  did  not  answer  him ;  only  the  cassique  noted,  as  if  a 
little  shuddering  had  suddenly  gone  through  his  body.  And  the 
boy  stooped  to  the  fawn,  and  busied  himself  with  the  silver  collar, 
and  the  bell,  which  Grace  Masterton  had  put  about  her  neck. 
Then  the  cassique  could  well  conceive  that  something  had  gone 
wrong  with  him ;  and  he  more  earnestly,  but  with  even  more  ten 
derness  than  before,  exhorted  him  to  say  wherein  he  ailed.  To 
this  the  boy  replied  abruptly,  in  the  manner  of  his  people,  but  not, 
as  we  should  deem,  with  any  purpose  to  be  rude. 

"  What  should  ail  Iswattee  ?  Iswattee  says  not,  '  Iswattee  is 
hurt  —  Iswattee  is  sick  !'  " 

Then  he  stooped  and  whispered  something  in  the  ear  of  the 
little  fawn,  and  at  the  same  moment  he  pulled  her  by  the  forefoot ; 
whereupon  —  even  as  he  had  devised  by  the  action  —  the  little 
beast  sprang  away  from  him,  and  coursed  with  all  its  speed  over 
the  meadows.  Then  the  boy  as  suddenly  sprang  away  after  her, 
leaving  the  cassique  unanswered  and  alone. 

And  the  cassique  mused  upon  the  strangeness  of  the  proceed 
ing  ;  for  well  he  surmised  that  the  boy  had  so  trained  the  doe  to 
flight,  by  a  trick  of  whisper,  even  as  the  Arab  trains  his  horse. 
And  he  said  to  himself,  musingly : — 

"  It  belongs  to  the  race  !  There  is  a  nature  which  the  great  God 
of  the  universe  designs  for  each  several  place  and  people.  The  wild 
for  the  wild  ;  else  would  it  never  be  made  tame  !  But  when,  in 

22* 


THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  great  forests,  the  wild  beasts  shall  all  be  subdued  or  slaugh 
tered,  will  the  wild  man  rise  to  higher  uses?  Hath  his  humanity 
a  free  susceptibility  for  enlargement  and  other  provinces  ?  Shall 
he  feel  the  growth,  in  his  breast  and  brain,  of  higher  purposes? 
Will  his  thought  grow,  and  provide  for  newer  wants  of  his  soul  ? 
If  it  may  not  be  thus,  then  must  he  perish,  even  as  the  forests 
perish ;  he  will  not  survive  the  one  use  for  which  all  his  instincts 
and  passions  seem  to  be  made  !  It  is,  perhaps,  his  destiny  !  He 
hath  a  pioneer  mission,  to  prepare  the  wild  for  the  superior  race ; 
and,  this  duty  done,  he  departs :  and,  even  as  one  growth  of  the 
forest,  when  hewn  down,  makes  way  for  quite  another  growth  of 
trees,  so  will  he  give  place  to  another  people.  Verily,  the  myste 
ries  of  Providence  are  passing  wonderful !" 

And,  so  musing,  our  cassique  took  his  way  to  the  openings  of 
the  barony,  where  his  workmen  were  all  busy  in  laying  off  the 
grounds  —  making  great  avenues,  and  converting  the  wild  for 
ests  into  goodly  woods.  Meanwhile,  the  Indian  boy  had  sped 
from  sight,  wild  as  the  deer  himself,  seemingly  in  pursuit  of  the 
fawn.  But  her  he  soon  whistled  to  him,  so  soon  as  he  had  sped 
out  of  call  of  the  cassique ;  and  he  carried  her  back  to  the  barony 
in  safety;  and  housed  her  in  the  neat  little  house  which  had  been 
made  for  her ;  and,  having  brought  her  green  food,  he  closed  the 
door  upon  her,  and  departed  —  stealing  away  from  sight  so  that 
no  one  knew  how  he  went  —  and  he  hid  himself  in  the  deep  thick 
ets  where  stood  the  hollow  tree  which  kept  the  war-arrows  from 
which  "he  broke  the  successive  days"  daily. 

From  the  hollow  he  drew  forth  the  sheaf,  the  arrows  of  which 
had  become  but  few.  He  counted  them,  one  by  one,  with  a  sad 
eye  and  slow  hand  ;  withdrew  one  of  them  and  broke  it,  and  again 
he  counted  them.  He  had  not  done  this  before.  He  had  scarcely 
need  to  do  so  now  ;  for  the  arrows  were  now  so  few,  that  he  might 
easily  see,  at  a  glance,  that  his  own  term  of  service  was  about  to 
close,  and  that  the  first  fearful  trial  of  his  young  life  was  approach 
ing  fast.  Not  two  weeks  remained  to  him  ere  that  event.  And 
that  event !  It  was  the  thought  —  the  dread  of  its  coming — which 
had  made  him  thin  and  wo-begone  of  aspect ;  had  withered,  as  it 
would  seem,  his  young  life ;  had  taken  the  lightness  away  from 
his  heart,  and  placed  there,  instead  of  it,  a  leaden  sorrow.  And, 
by  the  sorrows  which  he  shall  show  us  to-night,  shall  we  learn 


ISWATTEE.  515 

what  were  those  which  have  been  robbing  him  of  the  healthy 
vigor  of  his  limbs,  and  the  cheery  brightness  of  his  eye ! 

It  has  been  shown  us  that  he  has  been  consecrated  by  his  sire 
to  a  great  purpose  of  his  tribe.  For  this  hath  he  been  assigned 
to  a  menial  service  in  the  dwelling  of  one  whom  his  people  se 
cretly  regarded  as  a  public  enemy.  He  is  fully  conscious  of  the 
duty  before  him.  It  contemplates  a  national  revenge.  It  in 
volves  treachery,  havoc,  and  murder ;  and  he  is  put  in  a  position 
to  minister  to  the  terrible  object  by  his  keen  subtlety  and  cunning 
stratagem. 

But  his  nature  revolts  at  the  work  before  him.  He  is  some 
what  differently  constituted  from  his  people.  Though  the  son  of 
a  prince  —  himself  a  prince,  reared  and  trained  with  reference  to 
this  very  performance  —  his  soul,  of  less  masculine  nature  than 
that  of  his  people,  shrinks  as  he  contemplates  the  results  of  his 
action.  He  does  not  fear  death  or  strife.  But  his  moods  are 
naturally  gentle  ;  his  fancies  are  lively  ;  his  susceptibilities  large  ; 
his  imagination  lofty:  he  would  better  make  the  orator  or  the 
poet  of  his  people,  than  their  sanguinary  warrior !  The  red  men 
make  their  mistakes,  even  as  the  whites,  in  willing  a  pursuit  for 
their  sons  which  is  inconsistent  with  natural  endowrment.  Set 
aside,  suffered  to  go  free,  and  work  out  the  problem  for  himself, 
independently  of  convention,  and  Iswattee  —  "  the  tree  put  to  grow" 
—  might  become  something  of  a  philosopher  —  something  higher, 
perhaps  —  a  seer,  a  poet,  gifted  with  prophetic  foresight!  Arbi 
trarily  decreed  to  be  a  warrior,  and  to  steep  his  hands  in  blood, 
as  a  sort  of  baptism  of  his  opening  manhood,  he  shudders  at  the 
destiny  before  him ;  which,  as  yet,  he  sees  not  how  to  escape. 

His  ordeal,  which  we  have  already  described,  has  shown  us 
that  the  spiritual  influences  which  have  wrought  upon  his  imagi 
nation  were  not  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  his  father.  The 
images  which  wooed  him  in  his  dreams  were  not  savage,  but  gen 
tle  and  loving.  Instead  of  the  raging  tiger,  the  stealthy  panther, 
the  stealing  and  subtle,  serpent,  the  thundering  cayman,  either  of 
which  would  have  gratified  his  sire,  there  came  to  him  a  white 
bird,  which  sweetly  stooped  to  his  ear,  and  whispered  him  with 
love !  And  anon,  when  he  was  first  brought  to  the  white  cas- 
sique,  whom  he  was  to  requite  with  treachery,  he  beheld  a  fair 
white  girl,  whom  his  lips  unwittingly  called  "  An-ne-gar !" — whom 


516  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

his  instincts  taught  him  was  the  very  creature  which  had  been 
imaged  to  his  dreaming  senses  as  the  bird  whose  totem  he  should 
bear ! 

And,  strange  to  say,  this  damsel  of  the  pale-races  attached  her 
self  only  to  him !  Poor  Grace !  she  had  no  alternative.  She 
had  no  playmates,  no  companions  of  her  own  age ;  her  mother 
scarcely  noticed  her ;  and  her  elder  sister,  dying  by  sad  degrees, 
hardly  conscious  half  the  time,  had  no  thought  of  Grace,  unless 
when  she  stood  actually  beside  her ! 

And  so  Grace  and  the  Indian  boy  went  together  in  the  forests, 
until  she  grew  almost  as  wild  as  he ;  and  he  brought  her  the 
young  fawn ;  and  he  taught  her  his  sylvan  arts  —  how  to  snare 
the  game  and  trap  the  bird ;  and,  in  return,  she  sang  for  him,  and 
gave  him  the  only  lessons  which  he  had,  by  which  to  articulate  in 
the  speech  of  the  foreign  people. 

And  daily,  if  he  grew  not  wiser  in  this  strange  speech,  his  heart 
grew  softer,  his  moods  more  gentle ;  and  then  he  began  to  feel, 
more  and  more,  how  terrible  was  the  duty  which  had  been  set 
him  by  his  sire  !  And  nightly  as  he  came,  as  now,  to  do  his  task 
—  to  break  the  arrow,  and  mark  the  day  which  was  spent;  as  he 
came  to  see  how  rapidly  approaching  was  the  period  when  he 
should  be  required  to  open  the  doors  of  the  dwelling  to  the  mid 
night  murderer  —  to  steep  his  own  knife  and  hatchet  in  the  blood 
of  the  people  who  belonged  to  An-ne-gar,  his  white  bird :  nay, 
when  the  teirible  picture  rose  before  his  imagination,  of  that  fair 
creature  herself  reft  of  those  beautiful  tresses  ;  her  white  skin  dab 
bled  in  blood ;  her  bright,  laughing  eyes  quenched  in  death  — 
then  the  wretched  boy  threw  himself,  in  his  agony,  down  upon 
the  brown  heather ;  and,  though  he  broke  the  arrow,  he  wailed 
and  bemoaned  the  destiny  to  which  Indian  boy  had  never  before 
proved  himself  untrue ! 

That  there  should  be  one,  unknown,  who  should  supply,  for  a 
time,  the  broken  arrows,  and  thus  compel  him  to  mistake  the  ap 
pointed  time,  he,  of  course,  knew  not ;  but  these  substituted  arrows 
covered  but  a  week  of  time :  and  now,  as  he  looked  upon  the 
sheaf,  he  groaned  in  despair;  for  he  discovered  that,  by  his  count, 
but  thirteen  arrows  remained  of  all  the  sheaf  which  his  sire  had 
given  him  —  but  thirteen  days  of  respite  —  and  then  the  wild  cry 
at  midnight ;  the  whoop  of  death  ;  the  sharp  arrow  ;  the  griding 


ISWATTEE.  517 

knife;  the  cleaving  hatchet;  the  wholesale  massacie  of  those 
whose  bread  he  ate,  whose  care  he  felt,  whose  love  he  desired 
most;  the  murder  of  the  very  bird  of  whiteness  and  ineffable 
beauty,  which  the  Great  Spirit  had  commissioned  him  to  take  to 
his  heart  as  its  tutelary  genius  ! 

But  thirteen  nights,  and  then  all  these  crowding  horrors  !  How 
much  more  terrible  would  have  been  his  anguish,  had  he  dreamed 
that  even  this  respite  was  not  allowed  him  —  that  he  had  not  half 
this  time ;  that  his  strategy  had  been  baffled  by  superior  cunning ; 
that  half  of  the  arrows  remaining  in  his  serpent-quiver  were  false 
substitutes  for  others  which  he  had  already  broken ! 

But,  even  with  his  imperfect  knowledge,  his  misery  could 
scarcely  have  suffered  increase.  Having  broken  the  one  arrow, 
and  restored  the  sheaf  to  the  hollow  tree,  he  cast  himself  down 
upon  the  earth,  face  prone  in  the  dust,  and  moaned  audibly.  He 
could  moan  —  the  red  man  can  weep,  moan,  and  laugh,  like  the 
men  of  another  race,  if  lie  be  alone.  But  his  self-esteem,  which 
is  always  nursed  by  solitude,  will  never  suffer  a  witness  of  his 
tears ;  hardly  of  his  laughter.  He  is  not  adamant,  though  he 
hides  from  the  sight  of  the  white  man  —  whom  his  instincts  de 
scribe  to  him  as  a  mocking  superior  —  his  passionate  emotions, 
his  agonies,  his  fears  and  tears. 

And  hot  and  scalding  were  the  tears  which  gushed  from  the 
young  eyes  of  Iswattee,  and  deep  and  sad  enough  were  the  great 
sobs  that  shook  his  bosom  and  burst  from  his  parted  lips  —  as, 
throwing  himself  upon  the  earth,  with  face  buried  in  the  dust,  he 
prayed  to  the  Great  Spirit,  the  Almighty  and  Eternal  Father, 
whom  he  so  ignorantly  knew,  to  find  him  some  way  of  escape  from- 
the  task  set  him  —  from  the  sire  of  his  people!  —  prayed  him  to 
open  a  path,  at  least,  by  which  to  save  the  little  White  Bird  and 
her  people  !  And,  might  we  now  translate  the  language  of  his 
prayer,  it  would  be  seen  that  nothing  more  fervent  and  full  of 
earnest  passion  ever  flowed  from  the  lips  of  Christian  priest  or 
sinner ! 

But  he  did  not  limit  himself  to  prayer.  The  poor  savage,  with 
heart  thus  growing  white,  had  still  a  perfect  faith  in  the  supersti 
tions  of  his  own  people.  His  faith  required  penance,  an  ordeal, 
as  well  as  prayer ;  and.  with  the  hope  to  receive  a  saving  and 
teaching  inspiration,  he  imposed  upon  himself  a  renewal  of  that 


518  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

exhausting  novitiate  from  which  he  had  only  just  emerged,  when 
first  brought  to  our  knowledge.     He  had  gathered  a  supply  of  the 
bitter  roots  of  the  forest,  emetic  and  narcotic,  which  the  Indian 
pharmacy  had  already  taught  him  how  to  prepare  ;  and  there,  night 
ly,  in  the  secrecy  of  the  thicket,  he  built  his  fires,  and  in  his  little 
pots  of  clay  he  boiled  his  nauseous  decoctions.     Nightly  did  he 
drink  of  the  liquors,  black  and  crimson  alternately,  purging  his 
blood  and  stimulating  his  brain  ;   and  swallowing  daily  only  such 
small  portions  of  the  simplest  food  as  should  sustain  life.     Then, 
retiring  into  still  deeper  thickets,  he  threw  himself  down  in  the 
solitude  and  darkness,  to  sleep  and  dream,  and  win  from  Heaven 
the  much-desired  inspiration.     Let  us  not  mock  at  the  simple 
superstition,  in  consideration  of  his  simpler  and  much-confiding 
faith.     Alas,  for  the  poor  boy !  his  visions  now  brought  him  only 
to  a  bewildering  confusion  of  the  senses.     The  images  that  visited 
his  dreaming  fancies  were  mingled  wildly,  and  taught  him  noth 
ing.     Ever  the  white  bird  was  present,  conspicuous  over  all,  but 
it  was  amid  the  storm  of  a  conflict,  in  which  his  sire  and  the  bird 
and  himself  strove  at  once  together.     There  were  raging  wolves ; 
there  were  lurking  serpents ;  the  great  black  bear  sometimes 
would  trample  on  his  bosom,  and  the  stealthy  panther  scream  be 
side  his  ear;  but  the  white  bird  would  come,  even  then,  between 
him  and  his  fate,  and  in  the  flutter  of  her  perfect  plumage  his 
aching  spirit  would  be  lulled  to  sleep.     But,  from  all  his  visions 
he  won  no  counsel ;   and  the  morning  found  him,  at  every  dawn 
ing,  as  doubtful  of  his  future,  as  unsteady  of  his  purpose,  as  when 
he  had  surrendered  himself  to  sleep  the  night  before.     No  wonder 
^he  cassique  was  confounded  at  the  wo-stricken  aspect  of  the  boy ! 
Alas  !  fearful  as  was  the  trial  before  him,  he  was  not  the  only 
sufferer  under  the  bloody  sweat  of  the  spirit,  struggling  with  the 
fleshly  destiny.    The  cassique  must  go  through  a  like  ordeal,  though 
under  the  guidance  of  a  superior  nature.     He,  too,  must  appeal  to 
the  Great  Spirit,  and  through  secret  prayer,  and  in  the  patient  en 
durance  of  a  wo  that  knows  no  remedy  —  that  can  not  save  —  that 
feels  how  certain  is  the  doom  that  crushes  the  beloved  one  out  of 
life,  and  denies  that  any  arm  shall  save !     He  knows  that  Olive, 
his  wife,  is  doomed.     He  deceives  himself  in  nothing.     He  knows 
that,  without  knowledge  or  evil  purpose,  he  himself  hath  doomed 
her ;   his  very  love,  which  would  have  saved  and  nourished,  and 


ISWATTEE.  1)19 

crowned  her,  as  his  queen  of  love,  of  beauty,  of  song,  and  of  truth 
and  purity,  hath  been  the  bane  of  her  life,  and  the  blast  which 
hath  mildewed  her  beauty.  He  hath  built,  and  hoped,  and  prayed, 
and  loved,  in  vain ;  and  not  merely  in  vain,  but  mischievously. 
And  now  he  feels  no  more  the  heart  to  build,  or  the  hope  to  save, 
or  the  taste  for  the  beautiful.  His  occupation  is  at  an  end.  The 
very  being  for  whose  blessing  he  had  decreed  that  the  wilderness 
should  blossom  as  the  rose,  can  see  no  more,  can  feel  no  more,  of 
the  charm  that  dwelleth  in  sky,  or  wood,  or  tree,  or  flower.  The 
blossoms  have  perished  from  her  cheeks,  and  a  premature  autumn 
is  blowing  its  blight  across  her  heart. 

Yet,  though  he  sees  and  feels  all  this,  and  though  his  own  heart 
is  full  of  its  own  agonies,  he  must  come  before  her  with  a  brow 
serene,  if  sad.  She  sits  in  a  cushioned  chair  in  her  chamber 
when  he  comes,  clad  in  white,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  lap, 
her  face  wan  as  the  moon  upon  a  wintry  night,  yet  her  eyes  shi 
ning  with  a  supernatural  brightness.  Her  lips  are  bloodless  — 
whiter  than  her  cheeks.  Her  long  hair  falls  upon  her  shoulders, 
escaping  from  beneath  the  white  cap,  and  rests  altogether  lifeless, 
that  was  once  all  glow  and  sparkling  beauty.  And  thus  she  sits 
for  hours,  until,  in  her  exhaustion,  she  will  say,  "  Mother ;"  and 
when  the  miserable  mother  comes  to  her,  she  will  only  point  to 
the  couch,  and  whisper,  "  Sleep  —  sleep  !  I  must  sleep,  mother." 

But  now,  as  the  cassique  returns,  he  conducts  Zulieme  to  his 
wife's  chamber,  and  finds  her  sitting  up  as  we  have  described. 
He  has  met  her  mother  in  the  hall,  who  has  much  wondered  to 
see  him  bring  the  stranger,  and  one  so  beautiful  and  young.  He 
is  brief  in  his  introduction  of  Zulieme  ;  and  the  mother  is  suddenly 
haughty. 

"  I  see  not,"  she  said,  in  a  half  whisper,  "  how  we  are  to  enter 
tain  a  stranger  now." 

"  You  are  not  required  to  overcome  this  difficulty,  Mrs.  Master- 
ton.  I  beg  you  not  to  attempt  it.  I  will  instruct  Mrs.  Pond  — 
my  housekeeper — as  to  what  is  to  be  done.  I  have  considered 
the  whole  matter." 

"  But  you  will  not  trouble  Olive,  in  her  present  state,  with  this 
woman's  presence,"  she  replied,  in  still  subdued  tones,  seeing  that 
the  cassique  was  actually  about  to  do  this  very  thing. 

"  It  will  hardly  trouble  her ;  it  may  soothe.     This  lady  is  a 


I 


520  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

married  woman,  though  very  young,  and  she  will  be  my  guest  foi 
awhile ;  and,  while  my  guest,  it  is  fitting  that  she  should  see  my 
wife.  I  can  not  think  that  it  will  hurt  Olive ;  it  must  rather  in 
terest  her.  She  may  arouse  and  divert  her  thoughts.'' 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Masterton  lifted  har  eyebrows,  and  her 
hands  slightly,  as  the  cassique  turned  away  from  her  to  Zulieme ; 
and  finally  left  the  hall  hurriedly,  and  procacded  with  all  haste  to 
Olive's  chamber.  Here  she  had  no  sooner  entered,  but  the  ma 
licious  fool-woman  exclaimed  — 

"What  do  you  think?  —  he  has  gone  and  brought  home  a 
strange  woman  —  a  strange  woman  —  and  a  young  one,  too  —  and 
you,  my  poor  Olive,  so  feeble  —  so — " 

u  Oh,  I  pray  you,  hush,  mother !"  was  the  plaintive  appeal  of 
Olive  ;  which  might  not  have  availed  to  stop  the  beldame's  tongue, 
but  that  the  cassique  was  so  quick  in  following  her  footsteps.  He 
gave  her  but  a  look  as  he  entered,  and  Olive  saw  that  look,  if 
nothing  else.  The  mother  left  the  room.  The  cassique  ap 
proached  his  wife  tenderly,  and  with  a  strange,  sad  humility  of 
deportment,  as  if  he  felt  a  fear.  The  look  of  authority,  which  had 
awed  the  mother,  was  changed  to  one  of  the  meekest  and  most 
submissive  gentleness  and  timidity. 

"  Olive,"  he  said,  i(  I  have  ventured  to  bring  you  a  young  lady- 
companion  for  awhile.  You  will  make  her  welcome.  She  is 
young  and  artless." 

A  sweet  smile  passed  over  the  lips  of  the  dying  woman  —  so 
sweet,  so  soliciting,  so  bland  and  blessing,  that  it  won  Zulieme  in  a 
moment  to  her  side,  where  she  suddenly  knelt  down  and  kissed  the 
wan,  thin  hands  of  the  sufferer.  Her  quick  eye  caught  instantly 
the  fearful  intelligence  of  death  in  that  strangely-sweet  aspect. 
She  saw  that  the  lady  was  fast  escaping  from  earth,  and  that  her 
spirit  was  already  sublimed  for  heaven  by  its  own  perfect  con 
sciousness  of  the  truth.  She  saw,  too,  that  the  heart  of  the  suf 
ferer  was  desolate :  but  that,  in  its  desolation,  it  had  grown  to  ten 
derness  !  And  the  lady  was  named  "  Olive."  How  that  name 
haunted  our  little  Spanish  wife !  but,  in  this  case,  it  was  not  with 
any  fear.  Surely,  this  could  not  be  the  "  Olive"  that  Harry  used 
to  love  !  And  yet,  how  strange  that  the  cassique  should  so  greatly 
resemble  Harry !  Zulieme  was  bewildered,  but  not  forgetful. 

Olive  suffered  her  to  keep  possession  of  her  thin,  wan  fingers,  and 

j 


ISWATTEB.  521 

smiled  upon  her  the  gentle  welcome  that  her  lips  did  not  speak ; 
and  with  this  welcome  the  wife  of  our  rover  was  content. 

Olive  Berkeley  had  fully  recovered  her  senses.  She  had 
passed  through  a  fearful  paroxysm  ;  but  it  left  her  brain  free.  In 
degree  as  her  infirmities  increased,  her  mind  had  become  clearer. 
She  had  no  more  visions  of  Harry  Berkeley.  Once  assured  that 
he  was  living  —  once  assured  of  his  actual  presence  —  it  would 
seem  that  all  the  mists  that  had  clouded  her  mental  vision  had 
passed  away,  and  the  evening  promised  a  sweet,  mild,  gentle  sun 
set.  The  skies  were  growing  brighter  as  the  earth  grew  dim. 
Life  had  nothing  to  bestow,  and  all  the  love  of  which  she  was  now 
capable  was  perfectly  free.  Her  spirit  was  at  one  with  that  joy 
of  peace  which  reposes  on  assured  hopes  and  the  purest  affections, 
and  harmonizes  every  doubt  in  faith. 

Zulieme  was  soon  at  home  at  the  barony  of  Kiawah.  She  was 
often  with  Olive,  and  talked  with  her,  and  grew  fond  of  serving 
her.  She  played  with  Grace,  and  became  a  child  as  she  played  with 
the  child.  But  she  shrank  from  the  stately  mother,  whose  smile 
of  mixed  scorn  and  vexation  usually  drove  her  to  the  chamber  of 
Olive,  or  to  the  playground  of  Grace,  with  whom  she  frequently 
found  the  Indian  boy  Iswattee.  But  she  somehow  disliked  this 
boy.  He  was  solemn  without  cause.  She  could  forgive  the  grav 
ity  of  the  dying  Olive ;  but  such  gravity  as  that  of  Iswattee  she 
held  to  be  an  impertinence.  What  right  had  such  a  boy  to  look 
so  sorrowfully  grand  ?  Alas  for  the  poor  Indian  !  she  knew  nol 
where  his  torture  lay  ! 

Grace  suddenly  discovered,  only  the  day  after  Zulieme's  arri 
val,  that  something  ailed  Iswattee ;  and  she  said  to  him,  abruptly : 

"  Iswattee,  ar'n't  you  sick  ?  You  look  so !  You  must  have 
physic !  You  must  get  well.  You  must  go  to  brother,  and  get 
some  of  that  physic  he  gives  to  me.  It  always  makes  me  well. 
But,  0  boy  !  how  it  will  make  you  tie  up  your  face,  it's  so  horrid 
nasty!  What !"  —  as  the  Indian  shook  his  head  —  "you  won't 
go?  But  I  will  myself.  I'll  tell  brother;  and  he'll  mix  the 
physic;  and  I'll  bring  it;  and  I'll  make  you  drink  it,  you  foolish 
fellow,  and  laugh  to  see  the  face  you'll  make!  But  'twill  make 
you  well,  Iswattee." 

Having  now  temporarily  disposed  of  the  cassique's  household, 
let  us  look  to  our  rover  on  the  sea. 


622  THE    CASS1QUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   L. 

THE    DOINGS    WITH    THE    DONS. 

"  Tins  be  one  of  your  circumventions,  forsooth !  I  warrant  you  it  shall 
end  in  a  broil."  —  Old  Comedy. 

THE  "  Happy-go-Lucky"  was  once  more  at  sea,  "  walking  the 
waters  like  a  thing  of  life."  But  she  did  not  walk  according  to 
the  desires  of  her  captain.  She  had  head  winds.  He  desired  to 
run  down  south,  but  the  winds  blew  from  that  quarter ;  and,  be 
fore  he  had  left  the  port  of  Ashley  an  hour,  they  came  on  heavily 
to  blow.  To  keep  her  from  being  blown  north,  was  all  that  he 
could  hope  for ;  and  the  labors  of  the  day  were  all  addressed  to 
this  object.  Incessantly  was  the  little  cruiser  put  about,  our  rover 
keeping  his  eye  steadfastly  in  the  direction  of  Kiawah. 

He  was  troubled.  His  mind  was  full  of  deep  anxieties.  To 
be  thwarted,  even  by  a  straw,  when  we  have  set  our  souls  upon 
aft  object,  is  to  chafe  and  madden  ! 

"  We  have  but  few  days  left  us,"  said  Calvert  to  his  favorite 
follower,  Belcher,  as  he  strode  the  quarter-deck.  "  These  ac 
cursed  savages  will  be  upon  them  at  Kiawah  !  These  murderous 
Spaniards  will  be  upon  them  at  Beaufort!  If  this  gale  last — 
this  wind  continue  from  this  quarter  —  where  shall  I  be  ?  Where 
I  can  give  them  no  succor !" 

"  But,"  responded  Belcher,  "  have  you  not  had  advices  sent  to 
Beaufort?" 

"  Yes,  if  any  faith  can  be  put  in  the  promise  of  Governor  Quar 
ry  !  But  he  made  quite  too  light  of  the  danger,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  and  has  probably  done  nothing.  That  a  butterfly  should  be 
in  commission  when  a  mountain  is  to  be  heaved  up !" 

"  Oh !  no  doubt  he  has  done  it,  sir.  He  could  hardly,  if  he 
promised  you,  have  forgotten  or  neglected  it." 


THE  DOINGS  WITH  THE  DONS.  523 

"  I  could  hope  so  —  deem  so  ;  for  I  took  care  to  urge  the  matter 
upon  him  in  no  moderate  terms  of  entreaty.  Yet  all  will  depend 
upon  his  promptness.  He  would  need  to  send  his  despatch  by 
water  to  Lord  Cardross.  One  periagua  might  fail.  I  should 
have,  sent  three,  in  swift  succession  ;  so  that  if  one  were  swamped, 
or  two,  there  might  be  a  third  chance.  But  —  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  say  that  any  would  be  in  season !  The  Spaniards  once  upon 
the  seas,  would  take  the  wind,  not  heeding  any  appointed  days  with 
the  savages ;  and  this  wind,  now  dead  ahead  for  us,  would  bring 
them  rapidly  on  their  way.  They  might  capture  and  destroy  the 
settlement  at  Beaufort,  without  giving  heed  to  the  rising  of  the 
Indians,  even  though  they  had  concerted  with  them  for  a  simul 
taneous  invasion.  In  the  conquest  of  Beaufort  they  would  need 
no  help  of  the  savages.  It  would  be  an  achievement  wholly  of 
their  shipping ;  and,  even  with  the  advices  of  Governor  Quarry, 
Lord  Cardross  could  not  put  the  place  in  a  state  of  defence.  His 
only  hope  of  safety  would  be  in  its  abandonment,  and  the  escape 
of  his  people  to  Charleston  by  land.  Then  would  come  the  next 
danger  from  the  savages.  O  winds !  winds  !  winds  !  why  do  ye 
baffle  me  at  this  perilous  moment  ?" 

And  he  strode  the  deck  impatiently,  heedless  of  the  storm  and 
driving  spray.  Then,  returning  to  where  Belcher  stood,  now 
joined  by  old  Franks,  he  said  : — 

"  And  there  is  that  danger,  the  uprising  of  the  red  men  them 
selves.  We  have  but  a  few  days  more  to  spare  —  not  six  before 
their  outbreak ;  and,  unless  we  can  get  back  in  season,  the  scat 
tered  settlements  will  all  be  destroyed,  and  their  people  massacred. 
There  is  my  wilfully-blind  bro — " 

Here  he  checked  himself,  and  looked  sternly  on  his  two  listen 
ers.  Then,  suddenly  — 

"  Does  not  the  wind  lull  ?" 

"  Blows  harder  than  ever,  your  honor,"  was  the  reply  of  old 
Franks." 

"  What  was  I  saying  ?  Ah  !  There  is  the  settlement  of  Kia- 
wah,  the  new  barony  of  Sir  Edward  Berkeley  —  what  shall  save 
it,  and  the  thoughtless  inhabitants,  unless  we  can  seasonably  ar 
rive  ?" 

"  But,  sir,  I  myself  carried  your  instructions  to  Gowdey,  and 
the  letter  to  Sir  Edward,  counselling  him  to  be  watchful." 


524  THE   CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"  Ay,  but  suppose  Gowdey  could  not  get  to  Kiawah  ?  These 
red  men  are  now  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  country.  He 
might  find  it  impossible  to  make  his  way." 

"  Oh !  sir,  I'd  stake  ten  years  of  my  life  on  old  Gowdey  as  a 
scout." 

"  Perhaps !  But  if  the  cassique  will  not  hear  him  ?  If,  as 
has  been  hitherto  the  case,  he  holds  these  to  be  vain  apprehen 
sions,  and  still  persists  in  his  belief  in  the  good  faith  of  the  red 
men  ?" 

"Then, "said  old  Franks,  something  vexatiously  —  "then  he 
ought  to  feel  their  arrows  !  Ef  a  man 's  so  full  of  his  own  conceit, 
that  he  won't  hear  to  reason  and  ixperience,  I  'm  clear  he  ought 
to  suffer  for  it." 

"  Silence,  old  man  !  you  know  not  what  you  say  !  It  is  a  vir 
tuous  error  in  the  cassique  of  Kiawah.  It  is  an  error,  no  doubt ; 
but  it  is  the  growth  of  a  noble  heart.  Let  us  not  be  too  free  to 
use  God's  judgments  !  Better  that  men  should  suffer,  from  too 
much  faith  in  humanity,  than  that  faith  should  die  out  wholly  in 
the  heart  of  man  i  No,  Franks  !  let  us  not  speak  thus,  though 
we  feel  that  our  fellow  is  blind  and  weak,  and  persists  in  a  foolish 
error.  We  must  save  men  from  their  errors,  if  we  can  ;  not  aban 
don  them  to  Fate,  because  they  are  foolish." 

"  But  who  's  the  cassique  of  Kiawah,  that  he  should  refuse  to 
listen  when  wiser  men  tell  him  of  his  danger?  He's  but  a  new 
comer  among  us,  and  pretends  to  know  more  of  these  red-skins 
than  anybody  besides.  He  ought  to  have  the  decency  to  listen  to 
those  who  know  'em  better.  Why,  sir,  to  believe  in  an  Injin  is 
like  trustin'  to  a  shark.  He'll  saw  through  you  with  his  toeth 
while  you  're  a-ticklin'  in  his  ears.  Everybody  who  knows  the 
breed,  knows  that  you  've  got  to  shoot  as  soon  as  you  can  see 
enough  of  the  copper  of  the  skin  to  drop  a  bead  upon  ;  ef  you 
stops  to  ax  first  what  they're  a-wantin',  it's  equal  to  sayin',  '  Come 
and  take  my  sculp  !' " 

The  captain  strode  to  and  fro  in  considerable  vexation ;  then 
returning,  said  to  Belcher: — 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  one  Ligon  ?  Gowdey  lias  engaged 
him  as  a  scout  for  me,  between  his  castle,  Kiawah,  and  the  bay 
where  we  harbored." 

"  And  he  couldn't  have  got  a  better,  sir  ;  he  's  first  rate  :  Frank* 


THE    DOINGS    WITH    THE    DONS.  525 

knows  him  well.  'T  was  he  that  showed  me  the  way  over  the 
country  when  I  came  to  Charleston  first  from  Beaufort." 

"  He  's  good  as  a  guide,  then  ?  Knows  all  the  country  along 
the  Stono  and  Ashley  V 

"  Like  a  book,  sir." 

"  He  is  to  meet  us  at  our  landing,  and  to  serve  us  as  a  guide  to 
Kiawah  from  that  point.  We  have  to  pursue  the  shortest  and 
most  secret  route,  by  the  Stono  upward." 

"'T ain't  always  the  shortest  that's  the  safest," 

"  No,  indeed  !  But  these  are  the  very  objects  that  he  is  to  rec 
oncile.  Gowdey  tells  me  he  can  do  it." 

"  Ef  anybody  can,  he  can.  I'd  jest  as  lief  have  Ligon  as  Gow 
dey,  and  I  'd  as  soon  have  Gowdey  as  any  scout  livin'." 

"  Well,  if  the  winds  will  but  chop  round  to  east  or  north,  we 
shall  do !" 

And  all  parties,  as  if  by  a  common  impulse,  proceeded,  sotto 
voce,  to  apostrophize  the  winds,  after  a  well-known  sailor-fashion. 
But,  though  the  gale  subsided,  the  winds  remained  ahead  all  day. 
The  air  was  thick  with  rain,  and  so  it  continued  till  nightfall. 
The  rain  ceased  after  night,  but  a  heavy  mist  followed,  which 
continued  till  ten  o'clock  next  day.  The  cruiser  had  probably 
been  driven,  in  spite  of  all  seamanship,  some  thirty  miles  farther 
north.  Such  were  Calvert's  calculations. 

At  ten,  however,  the  wind  had  slightly  shifted,  so  as  to  enable 
the  ship  to  shape  her  course  a  few  points  nearer.  But  the  airs 
grew  light  and  baffling.  Suddenly,  the  lookout  from  the  mast 
head  sang  out  — 

«  Sail  ho !" 

"  Where  away  ?" 

"  Due  east,  sir." 

Here  was  a  new  subject  of  concern.  Was  this  one  of  the  king's 
cruisers  from  New  York,  obeying  the  requisitions  of  the  council 
of  the  lords-proprietors,  and  sent  specially  for  the  overhauling  of 
our  rover  ?  It  seemed  probable. 

"  Sail  ho !"  was  again  the  cry  from  the  top. 

<;  Ha  !  two  !"  exclaimed  Culvert.  His  hands  now  promised  to 
be  full.  His  anxieties  increased.  But  the  skies  thickened  again, 
and  into  fog.  The  breeze  grew  more  and  more  languid.  A  vast 
curtain  seemed  dropped  over  the  whole  ocean ;  objects  could  not 


526  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAii. 

be  discerned  beyond  the  ship's  length.  The  unknown  vessels 
were  lost  as  soon  as  seen.  They  were  probably  but  five  miles 
distant  when  first  discovered. 

"  It  is  easy  enough,  perhaps,  to  show  them  our  heels,"  he  said 
to  Belcher,  "  for  there  are  few  creatures  so  swift  of  wing  as  our 
little  cruiser ;  but  we  must  make  our  port !     We  can  only  run 
certain  distance.     Kiawah  must  bring  us  up.     We  run  for  Stono 
At  all  events,  beyond  Beaufort  we  can  not  go !" 

"  We  can  surely  run  out  of  sight  of  any  British  cruiser  in  these 
waters,"  replied  Belcher. 

"  Perhaps  !  yet  the  '  Southampton'  is  a  fast  sailer,  and  so  is  the 
'Swallow'  —  she  is  even  faster." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  the  Swallow  can't  weigh  metal  against  ours." 

"  What,  Belcher !   are  you,  too,  thinking  of  fighting  a  king* 
ship  ?     No,  no  !  we  must  run  from  them  —  elude  them,  in  some 
way,  and  make  our  harbor." 

It  was  neither  the  Southampton  nor  the  Swallow  that  they  saw 
but  vessels  of  even  better  speed  and  heavier  metal  —  the  "Thun 
derbolt"  and  "  Dragon  ;"  the  one  commanded  by  Sir  Everard  Hol 
ly,  a  sprig  of  nobility  —  a  baronet  of  late  creation  —  a  creature  of 
the  court,  who  had  never  been  baptized  in  salt  water,  and  knew 
nothing  of  his  business.  The  Dragon  had  quite  another  sort  of 
captain ;  an  old  sea-dog,  who  knew  his  business  thoroughly,  but 
had  one  infirmity :  he  sacrificed  to  Bacchus  in  the  strongest  wa 
ters.  The  lookout  of  the  Dragon  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
Happy-go-Lucky,  and  she  signalled  to  the  Thunderbolt,  upon  which 
Sir  Everard  had  his  bath  prepared  and  made  his  toilet.  Captain 
Pogson  at  the  same  moment  went  below,  and  swallowed  a  potent 
goblet  of  punch.  These  were  so  many  oblations  to  Fortune! 
Both  made  all  the  sail  they  could  under  the  circumstances,  duly 
stimulated  by  the  reward  offered  for  the  capture  of  the  famous 
cruiser,  and  by  the  persuasion  of  prize-money  besides.  But  the 
fog  soon  covered  the  sea,  for  them  us  for  the  Happy-go-Lucky. 

The  fog  lifted  again  at  nightfall ,  the  winds  grew  more  favora 
ble  ;  the  stars  gradually  began  to  steal  out.  The  Happy-go-Lucky 
was  at  once  upon  the  wing.  Calvert  walked  the  deck.  Suddenly 
the  watch  reported  — 

"  Lights !" 

"  Where  away  ?" 


THE   DOINGS   WITH   THE   DONS.  527 

"  Right  astern  !  about  four  miles." 

"  Shall  we  extinguish  our  cabin-lights,  sir  ?"  demanded  Belcher 

"No!" 

Belcher  and  Franks  were  somewhat  surprised,  and  both  ven 
tured  to  expostulate. 

"  We  are  but  drawing  them  after  us,  sir.  They  both  sail  well 
With  our  lights  in,  sir,  we  might  lose  them." 

"  We  shall  be  more  likely  to  do  so  with  lights  shown.  But 
they  will  take  the  course  anyhow.  We  must  mislead  them  by 
our  lights." 

The  king's  ships  had  first  caught  the  favoring  breeze.  They 
had  gained  accordingly;  but  Calvert  soon  found  —  for  they  con 
tinued  to  show  lights  also  —  that  they  did  not  gain  upon  him. 

"  We  can  run  out  of  sight  of  them,  if  we  please ;  but  I  would 
rather  beguile  them  into  the  gulf.  I  do  not  care  that  they  should 
reach  Charleston  until  our  work  is  over." 

"  Shall  we  clap  on  more  sail,  your  honor  ?" 

"  Not  a  rag !     We  have  enough  for  our  present  object." 

"  The  dem'd  impertinent !"  quoth  Sir  Everard  ;  "  he  shows  his 
lights,  too !  He  is  very  complacently  dem'd  civil,  and  we  shall 
knock  his  dead-lights  in  for  him,  I  deliberately 'determine !  Do 
with  your  dem'd  sails  what  you  will"  —  to  the  lieutenant  —  "but 
put  on  all  you  can  ;  only  do  n't  let  that  beast  of  a  tar-coat,  Pogson, 
throw  his  skirt  in  our  faces.  I  do  not  affect  the  odor  from  his 
ship." 

"  He  will  pass  us,  your  honor.  The  Dragon,  on  this  wind,  has 
the  heels  of  the  Thunderbolt." 

"  And  can  you  do  nothing  —  is  there  no  way,  by  dexterously 
working  this  implement  here"  —  pointing  to  the  helm  —  "  or  by 
putting  on  sails,  to  get  ahead  of  this  unclean  vessel  ?  She  has  a 
savor  such  as  the  ark  of  Noah  must  have  had,  with  its  very-much- 
mixed  population." 

The  marine  of  England,  in  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  had  fallen 
into  just  such  hands,  with  few  exceptions.  The  Raleighs  and 
Blakes  were  extinct. 

"  We  will  try,  your  honor." 

"  You  will  greatly  try  my  honor  if  you  do  not ;  ay,  and  my 
honor's  nostrils,  too !  Faugh !  what  a  most  horrid,  onion-like 


aavor i 


i" 


528  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

But  the  Dragon  would  pass  the  Thunderbolt.  Both  vessels 
carried  all  the  sail  they  could.  And  so  the  chase  was  hotly  urged 
until  long  after  midnight ;  the  pursuing  and  pursued  keeping  up 
nearly  the  same  relative  space  between  them  as  at  first. 

Shitting  the  scene  to  the  Happy-go-Lucky,  we  find  Calvert 
still  on  deck,  as  the  stars  began  to  pale  in  the  growing  mists  of 
the  morning.  He  seemed  to  drowse,  so  silent  were  his  musings. 
But  never  mind  was  more  vigilant ;  never  eye  more  widely  awake. 
At  length  he  said,  referring  to  a  previous  order — 

"  Belcher,  has  the  boat  been  made  ready,  with  the  lanterns  ?" 

"  All  ready,  sir." 

"  We  have  run  so  many  knots  the  hour,  have  we  not?" 

"  My  count,  sir,  exactly." 

"  In  an  hour  more  we  shall  be  off  the  opening  of  the  Ston 
It  is  yet  three  hours  to  daylight.     The  mists  are  thickening.     It 
will  be  dark  enough  for  our  purpose.     Call  Lieutenant  Eccles." 

The  first  lieutenant  drew  nigh. 

"  Lieutenant  Eccles,  you  will  please  see  to  the  launch.  You 
have  stepped  her  mast  ?  And  the  lanterns  are  all  prepared  ?" 

(l  All  right,  sir  ;  all  ready  !" 

"  Have  your  tackle  all  ready  to  set  her  afloat  when  I  give  the 
signal." 

Calvert  mused  and  strode  the  deck ;  Eccles  lingered.  Soon 
Belcher  came  forward. 

"  The  wind  will  just  suit  us ;  quite  enough  northing  for  an  off 
shore  course,  and  the  sea  is  smooth  enough.  If  we  can  send  them 
wide,  after  a  firefly,  but  for  one  hour  —  ay,  half  an  hour  —  it  will 
suffice." 

This  seemed  spoken  in  soliloquy,  softly ;  and  no  sooner  was  it 
spoken,  than  our  rover  walked  forward,  looked  over  the  bows  and 
gunwale,  watched  the  run  of  the  ship,  stepped  back  to  the  binnacle 
and  noted  her  bearings,  examined  his  watch,  and  then  —  some 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  having  elapsed  since  he  first  questioned 
about  the  launch  —  he  said  to  Eccles  : — 

"  Now,  lieutenant,  our  hour  has  come.  Your  launch  is  ready, 
your  lanterns  hung  ?  Lounch  the  boat,  and  light  them  ;  and  you, 
Hazard,  with  your  own  hands,  instantly  put  out  the  lights  of  the 
ship." 

The  thing  was  done  with  that  regularity  and  promptness  which 


THE  DOINGS  WITH  THE  DONS.  529 

marks  all  the  evolutions  in  a  well-managed  ship-of-war,  and  the 
report  made  to  the  captain.  In  a  few  moments  after,  the  boat, 
with  lighted  lanterns  at  the  top  of  her  mast,  was  borne  away, 
glimmering  and  gleaming  along  the  edge  of  the  sea,  like  a  star 
rapidly  losing  its  fires  in  the  dawn.  At  the  same  moment,  Cal- 
vert  seized  the  helm  of  the  ship  from  the  hands  of  the  seaman, 
and,  under  the  sudden  direction  of  his  arm,  she  shot  aside  oblique 
ly  into  the  darkness ;  shifting  her  course,  and  laying  her  head 
landward,  though  as  yet  no  outline  of  the  shore  was  visible  to  any 
eye. 

"  Our  little  f  Firefly,'  "  quoth  Calvert  to  the  group  beside  him, 
"  must  make  report  for  us  to  our  pursuers.  The  wind,  as  it  bears 
now,  and  the  drift  of  the  sea  (the  tide  now  running  out)  will  keep 
her  clear  of  the  land.  If  she  swims  but  a  single  hour,  she  will 
do  her  work  —  she  will  serve  our  purpose.  We  must  do  the  rest. 
You,  Lieutenant  Eccles,  and  you,  Will  Hazard,  get  into  the  rig 
ging,  and  keep  sharp  lookout  on  either  hand.  You,  Belcher,  get 
into  the  chains,  and  Franks  watch  amidships.  We  shall  need  all 
our  eyes  in  this  navigation  ;  for  though  mine  are  good,  and  I  have 
been  a  pilot  more  than  once  in  these  waters,  the  work  is  sufficient 
ly  perilous  and  nice." 

"  Now  I  see  it  all,"  quoth  Belcher  to  Franks,  as  the  two  made 
off  together.  "  These  king's  ships,  ef  they  be  king's  ships,  will 
follow  the  '  Firefly  ;'  and  we'll  slip  into  the  Stono,  and  not  draw 
any  eyes  after  us." 

"It's  dark  enough  for  it,"  replied  Franks.  "It's  a  sort  of 
fightin'  in  the  dark,  with  the  inimy  up  the  chimney." 

"  It  is  that !  But  the  captain's  got  the  eyes  of  an  owl !  He's 
great  for  pilotage.  The  place  he 's  once  seen,  or  the  person,  he 
knows  for  ever.  I'll  risk  anything  on  his  eyes." 

"They're  better  than  mine." 

"  To  your  posts,  men !"  cried  the  captain. 

They  were  off  in  an  instant. 

"  Keep  the  lead  going,  Lieutenant  Eccles !"  continued  Calvert. 
"  Let  them  make  prompt  report." 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir !" 

"  Do  you  see  the  lights  of  the  king's  ships — how  they're  steer 
ing  ?"  whispered  Belcher  to  Franks,  as  he  mounted  the  gunwale 
at  the  prow,  and  was  stepping  into  the  chains. 

23 


530  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

"  They're  steering,  I  reckon,  as  before/' 

•'  Yes,  I  think  so.  Ef  they  should  attempt  to  follow  us,  I  reck 
on  we  shall  see  them  beached  before  daylight.  And  the  '  Fire 
fly  ?' " 

"  The  critter's  standin'  out  to  sea,  and  keeps  her  course  like  a 
sensible  thing.  Well,  Belcher,  good  luck  to  him  that  sees  the  end 
of  it !" 

"  Psho  !  old  fellow,  you  're  scary !  I  'm  never  scary  when  the 
captain  's  at  the  helm." 

"  By  the  deep,  twelve  !"  was  the  sonorous  cry  of  the  sailor  who 
heaved  the  lead. 

"She  shoals  mighty  fast,  I'm  thinkin',  said  Franks. 

"  Oh  !  the  captain  knows  jest  where  to  put  about.  He  knows 
all  the  soundin's.  But  go  you  along  the  sides  now,  as  he  told 
you.  He'll  know,  ef  you  are  not  jest  where  he  wants  you." 

And  Franks  went  toward  the  captain. 

"  By  the  deep,  twelve  I""1  said  the  lead. 

"  Shoalin'  fast,  captain." 

"  Just  as  I  would  have  it,  Franks.  I  think  I  know  where  I  am 
now  !  Hark,  Franks  !  are  you  on  the  lookout  there  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir !" 

"  And  do  n't  hear  the  breakers  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  your  honor.     But  we  shall  soon,  I  reckon." 

"  Take  the  wax  from  your  ears,  old  man  !     I  hear  them  now." 

"  Breakers  on  the  lee-low  /"  cried  Belcher. 

«Ha!     Well,  as  I  told  you." 

"Breakers  to  windward!" 

"  Good  !     We  are  in  the  Gut !" 

"  By  the  deep,  nine!"  cried  the  lead. 

"  Look  out,  Franks,  for  the  shore-line !" 

"I  can't  see  twenty  yards  ahead,  your  honor." 

"  Are  you  sure  you've  got  eyes  at  all !  Why,  man,  do  you  not 
see  the  white  line  of  the  breakers  on  the  lee-bow,  here,  not  a  hun 
dred  yards  off?  And  here  to  windward  do  you  not  hear  them? 
The  dogs  are  barking  on  both  sides  of  us." 

"  Alas !  master,  I  've  no  more  eyes  nor  ears  for  good  service." 

"  You  have  hands,  however,  and  head,  old  fellow.  Here,  take 
the  helm,  and  work  it,  at  a  word,  while  I  look  out." 

And  Calvert  ran  up  the  rigging,  to  the  windward  side 


THE    DOINGS    WITH   THE   DONS.  631 

*•  By  the  deep,  nine  /" 

"  Starboard  your  lielm  !" 

"  Starboard  it  is,  sir !" 

"Steady  —  so!" 

Here  an  unusual  swelling  of  the  sea !  — 

"  The  cross-currents  from  inshore,  of  Kiawah,  Stono,  and  Ede- 
lano !"  muttered  Calvert.  "  What  water  have  you  got  there, 
Jack  ?" 

"  By  the  deep,  seven  /" 

"  Ha !  touch  and  go !  We  can  spare  little  now.  Starboard 
your  helm !" 

"  Starboard  it  is,  sir !" 

"  By  the  deep,  nine  /" 

"  We  shall  do !  There  are  two  more  points  that  ask  for  seeing 
and  hearing,  and  we  shall  have  a  floating  and  free  berth.  How 
lucky  that  the  shoaling  is  so  gradual  all  along  this  coast!  It 
needs  but  eye  and  ear,  and  tolerably  smooth  water,  and  one  may 
feel  his  way  in  safety.  Now  !" 

"  Breakers  to  windward P* 

"Breakers  to  leeward!" 

"Breakers  ahead!" 

"  Ah,  ha  !  Merry  dogs  these  !  —  all  about  us,  fellows !  But 
here  is  the  worst  passage.  This  cursed  mud-flat  lies  just  at  the 
channel's  mouth !  Now,  eyes,  ears,  all  senses,  do  your  duty ! 
Port,  there  —  hard  a-port !" 

"  Port  it  is,  sir  !" 

"  Helm,  there  !     Port !" 

"Port  it  is,  sir!" 

"  The  old  sea-dog,  without  eyes  or  ears,  is  yet  all  bone  and 
muscle.  Once  more  !  — " 

"  By  the  deep,  seven  I" 

"Hold  on!     What  water T 

"  By  the  deep,  seven  f" 

"  What  water  ?" 

"By  the  deep,  six!" 

"  Starboard !" 

"  Starboard  it  is,  sir  !" 

"What  water ?" 

"  By  the  deep,  seven  /" 


532  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"What  water?  ' 

"By  the  deep,  nine!" 

"Good!  All's  right  now.  The  worst  shoal  and  bar  are 
passed.  We  have  but  one  other  ugly  spot,  and  now  the  light 
thickens.  I  can  see  the  whole  line  of  breakers.  I  can  trace  the 
shore-line.  I  note  the  sand-hills,  and  the  woods.  Ah  !  here  we 
are,  at  the  Marsh.  Starboard  —  steady  !  Port  —  steady  !  Star 
board  !  Keep  your  course !  All 's  right.  Let  her  head  as  she 
goes." 

Calvert  descended  from  the  rigging,  and  relieved  Franks  at  the 
helm. 

"  You  have  been  prompt,  old  man,  as  if  you  were  but  thirty- 
five." 

"And  you've  had  the  eyes  of  old  Satan,  Captain  Calvert,  1 
must  say  it,  gittin'  through  these  cussed  sand-banks  as  you  did ! 
And,  even  now,  I  can't  see  a  good  fifty  yards  before  me." 

"  Never  mind,  old  fellow.  The  simple  secret  is  this,  that  your 
eyes  and  ears  have  given  out  a  few  years  before  your  hands,  your 
head,  or  your  heart.  You  have  been  as  quick  to  answer  with 
the  helm  as  I  to  speak.  But  let  me  have  it  now.  We  are  on 
our  course,  just  splitting  the  last  two  shoals,  and  all 's  plain  sail 
ing.  But  it  needs  some  eye  now,  if  not  ear." 

The  little  cruiser  was  soon  established  triumphantly  in  her  har 
borage.  There  was  no  more  difficulty,  and  day  was  about  to 
dawn.  Yet,  perhaps,  no  man  but  Calvert,  of  all  that  crew  of 
ninety  men,  good  seamen  all,  could  have  carried  them  through 
that  difficult  navigation,  in  that  thick  atmosphere.  Many  times 
did  oil  Franks  and  Belcher  draw  long  and  anxious  breaths,  at 
certain  points  in  the  passage,  even  though  both  of  them  felt  the 
most  perfect  confidence  in  the  captain.  They  were  now  all  re 
lieved.  The  little  cruiser  was  in  a  well-known  bay,  with  plenty 
of  water,  and  every  feeling  of  anxiety  was  at  end. 

"  And  we  have  two  good  days  to  spare  !"  said  Calvert,  exultingly. 
"  But  for  that  lucky  shifting  of  the  wind,  Jack  Belcher,  I  do  be 
lieve  I  should  have  gone  mad !" 

The  Happy-go- Lucky  was  now  land-locked.  No  danger  that 
the  king's  cruisers  would  attempt  to  follow,  even  if  they  had  noted 
her  course,  through  the  sinuous  channels  which  the  familiar  eye 
and  mind  of  Calvert  had  enabled  him  to  penetrate. 


THK    DOINGS    WITH    THE    DONS.  533 

The  Thunderbolt  arid  Dragon,  pressing  all  sail,  pursued  the 
false  light,  and  gained  upon  it. 

"  Dem  the  fellow's  impudence  !"  quoth  Sir  Everard  ;  "he's  not 
afraid !  He  absolutely  entreats  us  to  close  quarters,  and  holds 
the  light  for  us.  Now  shall  we  have  fighting  to  our  hearts'  con 
tent  !  But  for  the  unpleasant  smell,  and  the  smoke,  which  occa 
sions  the  rheum  to  affect  my  orbs  of  vision,  I  verily  believe  I 
should  enjoy  fighting.  I  like  to  hear  the  guns  roar,  and  see  the 
beautiful  flashes  !  Hark  ye,  Lieutenant  Smudge,  is  everything  in 
readiness  ?  Have  you  the  gunpowder  and  the  balls,  and  are  all 
your  monkeys  in  hand  ?  We  shall  have  rare  work  to  do,  for,  wot 
you  not,  this  pirate  is  an  embodied  devil  in  a  fight !  He  hath 
conquered  the  biggest  of  the  Spanish  dons ;  and,  though  I  give 
no  credit  to  the  Spaniard  as  a  fighting-animal,  yet  shall  we  be 
wise  to  blow  this  pirate  to  the  moon  at  the  first  broadside.  See 
that  you  are  prepared  to  do  this !  I  will,  meanwhile,  regale  my 
self  with  a  quaint  scene  in  my  '  Wycherley.'  But,  advise  me 
when  we  are  upon  him." 

On  board  the  Dragon,  Captain  Pogson  was  more  emphatic  and 
more  brief: — 

"  We  gain  upon  her !  D — n  and  blast  the  fellow  !  he  means 
to  give  us  work  !  To  show  his  lights  to  the  last !  Clear  away, 
and  get  ready  for  action !  We  are  almost  within  long  shot, 
now." 

And  he  hurried  below,  to  regale  himself  with  a  rummer  of 
punch. 

Meanwhile,  the  pursuers  clapped  on  every  sail  that  could  draw, 
encouraged  by  that  wandering  light  which  flickered  before  them ; 
tossing,  ever  and  anon,  drunkenly  on  the  billows,  but  still  gleam 
ing  aloft ;  and  steadily  going,  as  if  some  human  will  and  conduct 
were  guiding  at  the  helm.  The  boat,  thus  drifting,  swept  away 
along  the  isles  of  Kiawah,  and  by  Edings's,  even  while  the  cruiser 
was  quietly  slipping  into  her  harborage  at  Stono.  The  currents 
and  winds  favored  its  course  along-shore,  and  almost  within 
soundings,  until  suddenly  the  pursuers  beheld  the  light  extin* 
guished. 

"  Ha !"  cried  Pogson  of  the  Dragon,  which  vessel  was  ahead 
of  the  Thunderbolt,  "  the  chase  has  doused  her  glim.  She  begins 
to  feel  less  saucy !  A  sharp  lookout  now,  fellows,  at  fore  and  top, 


534  THE    CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

and  stand  ready  at  your  guns,  every  man  of  you,  who  would  have 
a  hand  in  the  gutting  of  the  pirate !" 

But  neither  boat  nor  light  did  they  again  behold  that  night ; 
but  they  kept  on,  with  every  sail  spread  that  could  draw,  the 
wind  speeding  them  with  increasing  force,  now  entirely  favorable, 
until  broad  daylight,  when  they  suddenly  found  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  Spanish  fleet  of  brigantines  and  guarda  costas,  which 
had  just  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  Port  Royal ;  and,  though 
the  two  nations  were  at  peace,  saluted  them  with  a  warm  welcome 
of  broadsides. 

Then  the  Thunderbolt,  spite  of  her  rosewater  captain,  dis 
charged  her  levin ;  and  the  Dragon  spat  her  fires,  not  the  less 
freely  because  of  Captain  Pogson's  rummers  of  punch  ;  and,  never 
unwilling,  the  Spanish  craft  closed  in  upon  the  two  English  ves 
sels,  and  poured  in  their  volleys  from  every  side.  There  were 
no  less  than  a  dozen  of  these  cruisers  constituting  the  fleet,  which 
had  just  finished  its  work  of  destruction  upon  the  little  colony  of 
my  Lord  Cardross  at  Beaufort.  The  Thunderbolt  had  her  half- 
score  of  assailants,  and  the  Dragon  as  many  ;  and  they  hovered 
about  the  two  English  ships  as  so  many  wolves  about  the  wounded 
buffalo.  Fortunately,  a  sufficient  space  between  the  consorts  en 
abled  them  to  work  their  guns  without  injury  to  each  other ;  and 
never  did  the  British  bulldog  show  himself  more  eager,  more 
fierce,  or  more  formidable,  dealing  with  such  unequal  force.  For 
tunately,  too,  though  so  numerous,  the  Spaniards  were  of  smaller 
craft,  and  carried  less  weighty  metal ;  but  the  inequality  was  still 
too  great,  unless  with  some  equivalent  odds  of  fortune.  Sir  Eve 
rard  was  a  fop  and  a  fool,  but  he  had  nevertheless  British  cour 
age ;  and,  though  his  olfactories  revolted  at  the  smell  of  gunpow 
der,  his  nerves  never  shrank  from  the  sound  of  shot.  Nor  did  the 
frequent  rummers  of  Pogson  render  him  less  willing  for,  or  per 
haps  less  able  in,  the  conflict.  To  it  they  went  like  tigers,  ran 
ging  fearfully  on  all  sides,  the  Spaniards  standing  up  to  their  guns 
like  genuine  salamanders,  as  they  had  been  wont  to  do  ere  the 
days  of  the  Armada.  They  were  encouraged  by  their  numbers ; 
and  this  reconciled  other  inequalities,  as  between  the  weight  of 
ships  and  metal.  Three  fine  new  brigantines,  just  out  of  Havana, 
and  a  score  of  guarda  costas,  all  well  manned  and  armed,  were  too 
much  for  the  English  ships.  But  the  honor  of  Britain  was  not 
in  thrir  kor-pinc*'.  N'-VT  >vi=  fi<7M  mrwn  r>r/V|oncr<1^  or 


THE   DOINGS   WITH   THE   DONS.  535 

desperate.  Sails  and  rigging  were  torn  to  pieces,  the  ships  hulled, 
guarda  costas  sunk,  brigantines  compelled  to  draw  off  and  refit; 
but  still  the  Thunderbolt  and  Dragon  roared  and  raged,  rampant, 
fearfully  dealing  their  bolts,  and  using  their  teeth  —  rending,  ra 
ging,  destroying,  though  themselves  on  the  verge  of  destruction ! 

This  the  Spaniards  well  knew.  They  were,  indeed,  great  suf 
ferers  ;  but  the  question  was  one  of  time.  Their  numbers  were 
such  that,  just  in  proportion  to  the  prolongation  of  the  conflict, 
were  their  chances  of  success.  The  English  must  succumb  from 
exhaustion.  The  light  craft  of  the  Spaniards  could  come  on,  or 
sheer  off,  at  discretion.  There  were  always  a  sufficient  number 
ready  to  renew  the  game,  and  supply  the  temporary  withdrawal 
of  others  when  the  battle  grew  too  hot. 

And  thus,  for  six  mortal  hours,  did  the  conflict  go  on.  Sir 
Everard,  properly  caparisoned,  in  full  uniform,  stood  the  fire  in 
the  most  conspicuous  situation.  The  powdered  puppy,  spite  of 
his  eau  de  luce,  and  the  surly  bulldog  Pogson,  spite  of  his  eau  de 
vie,  kept  their  posts,  notwithstanding  their  wounds.  Sir  Everard 
was  compelled  to  lie  upon  the  deck  ;  but  he  had  a  mattress  brought 
up  for  the  purpose,  and  from  this  he  gave  his  orders.  Fortunate 
ly,  he  had  but  one  order  to  give : — 

"  Fight  on,  my  good  fellows,  and  who  knows  but  you  will  all 
be  made  gentlemen  in  time  !"  Pogson  was  more  emphatic : — 

"  Give  'em  h-11 !  the  bloody  Turks  !  What !  shall  these  blast 
ed  Spaniards  pull  down  an  English  flag  ?  Pitch  the  shot  into 
'em,  fellows  !  Plenty  of  prize-money  and  grog !" 

The  second  officer  in  each  ship  was  a  staunch  seaman,  knew 
his  business,  and  had  the  requisite  back-bone.  But  the  fate  of 
the  English  ships  was  certain :  they  were  doomed !  They  had 
been  terribly  handled.  They  had  lost  a  large  proportion  of  their 
men  slain  outright,  and  many  more,  including  their  captains,  were 
Jwrs  de  combat  from  their  wounds.  They  had  beaten  off  and  dam 
aged  several  of  the  Spaniards.  One  brigantine  had  already  struck  ; 
but  was  retaken,  and  drawn  out  of  the  melee,  by  the  guarda  cos 
tas.  They  had  slain  of  their  enemies  five  to  one.  One  stout 
schooner  or  caravel  had  been  sunk  —  gone  down  in  an  instant ; 
but,  spite  of  all,  the  result  was  certain.  The  English  vessels  were 
almost  unmanageable.  The  sailors  were  nearly  exhausted.  The 
work  had  been  too  heavy  even  for  British  bulldogs ;  the  inequal 


536  THE,  CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

ity  too  great ;  and  they  now  but  feebly  responded  to  the  enemy's 
fire.  He  was  closing  about  them ;  but,  like  true  bulldogs,  there 
was  no  thought  of  surrender.  They  might  be  shot  to  pieces,  but 
were  not  prepared  to  haul  down  the  British  lion. 

At  that  moment  they  had  succor.  A  new  champion  came 
into  the  field  almost  unobserved.  The  Happy-go-Lucky,  with 
the  English  standard  flying  fore  and  aft,  darted  in  between  the 
Spaniards  and  their  prey !  Her  approach,  such  was  the  blind 
fury  of  the  combatants,  had  been  unnoted,  almost  to  the  very 
moment  when  she  delivered  her  fire  —  both  broadsides ;  and  that 
one  lire,  of  itself,  almost  decided  the  conflict,  so  exhausted  were 
both  the  parties.  But  how  came  our  cruiser  here  ?  Let  us  look 
back  six  hours. 

Scarcely  had  she  made  her  harborage  in  Stono  bay,  when  the 
watch  cried  out  — 

"Boat  ahoy!" 

One  boat,  and  then  another,  and  another  —  three,  four  —  all 
full  of  wretched  fugitives  from  the  Scotch  colony  of  Beaufort. 

The  Spaniards  had  sacked  the  place,  and  destroyed  or  dis 
persed  the  colonists.  Some  had  got  safely  from  the  island  to  the 
main  ;  some  were,  no  doubt,  sheltered  in  the  swamps  and  thickets  ; 
and  others  had  fled,  like  these,  with  oars  and  sails,  taking  the  in 
land  passage  for  Charleston. 

By  the  time  this  news  was  digested,  Harry  Calvert  was  in  a 
stern  passion,  and  it  was  broad  daylight.  The  sails  of  the  Happy- 
go-Lu^ky,  just  furled,  were  once  more  spread  to  the  wind.  For 
tunately,  the  wind  was  sufficiently  favorable ;  and,  by  noon,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  little  cruiser  had  reached  the  scene  of  conflict, 
and,  as  we  know,  not  a  moment  too  soon. 

All  hands  had  been  sent  to  uiiarters  without  beat  of  drum ;  the 
guns  shotted  and  run  out ;  everything  made  ready :  and,  as  she 
darted  between  the  Spaniards  and  the  two  exhausted  bulldog  Eng 
lishmen,  who  were  the  only  parties  that  did  not  know  they  were 
beaten,  the  effect  was  magical.  Ranging  alongside  two  of  the  largest 
of  the  brigantines,  she  delivered  her  powerful  broadside  from  her 
big-mouthed  brass  pieces  —  the  Long  Tom  thundering  over  all 
and  through  all,  with  terrific  effect!  Then,  forging  ahead,  she 
tacked  in  a  twink,  and  poured  in  a  second  broadside  from  the  other 
battery,  before  the  Spaniards  could  bring  a  gun  to  bear.  Down 


THE   DOINGS   WITH    THE   DONS.  537 

went  royal,  top,  and  mainmast;  then  crashed  the  timbers;  then 
rose  up,  in  awful  clamors,  the  cries  of  mangled  men,  while  the 
joyous  shouts  of  the  Dragon  and  Thunderbolt  shook  the  welkin 

The  two  ships,  thus  battered,  lay  almost  as  helpless  as  their 
British  enemies.  The  third  brigantine  sheered  off,  clapped  on  all 
sail,  and  strove  by  agility  to  escape  vengeance.  But  the  saucy 
cruiser  was  upon  her  next,  and  fastened  to  her  as  closely  as  the 
remora  to  the  whale.  A  sharp  and  sanguinary  action  followed. 
The  Spaniard  showed  good  blood,  but  she  had  already  been  parllj 
crippled  by  the  Dragon,  and  she  worked  heavily.  In  twenty 
minutes  a  cloud  mantled  her;  then  came  a  hiss;  then  a  roar;  and 
the  skies  were  darkened,  and  the  deeps  shaken  to  their  very  hol 
lows,  by  the  explosion  !  She  was  blown  to  atoms  ;  and  inconti 
nently  all  the  smaller  craft,  the  guarda  costas  and  caravels,  were 
in  full  flight,  gliding  off  for  the  shores  and  shallow  water. 

Calvert  ranged  once  more  beside  the  two  half-disabled  consorts 
of  the  perished  brigantine,  prepared  to  renew  the  punishment ;  but 
their  flags  came  down  at  his  approach  !  Drawing  nigh  the  Eng 
lish  ships,  he  demanded,  through  his  trumpet,  if  they  had  men 
enough  to  man  the  prizes,  which  were  now  drifting  beside  the 
conqueror. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  give  chase  —  give  chase  !''  was  the  answer ;  while 
both  Thunderbolt  and  Dragon  sent  their  boats  to  secure  the  prizes. 
Calvert  hauled  off  to  a  decent  distance,  and  waited  just  long 
enough  to  see  that  they  had  full  possession,  when  ^le  cried  again, 
through  his  trumpet  — 

"  Do  you  want  any  help  ?" 

"  No  !  thank  you  !  no  !     But  what  are  you  ?" 

"  The  Happy-go-Lucky  privateer,  of  England,  Captain  Harry 
Calvert !" 

"The  h-11  you  are !"  roared  Pogson  of  the  Dragon. 

"  Ah  !  very  curious  —  very  mysterious  —  by  my  faith  !"  cried 
Sir  Everard  Holly. 

And  both  captains  began  to  order  their  men  to  the  guns,  as 
about  ID  commence  a  new  action. 

But  the  Happy-go-Lucky  was  again  on  the  wing,  in  seeming 
pursuit  of  the  fugitive  vessels  of  the  Spaniards.  But  Calvert  had 
no  real  purpose  of  pursuit,  and  followed  not  far.  He  simply  sought 
to  fetch  a  sufficient  compass  about  the  English  ships  —  to  lose 

23* 


538  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KTA.WAH. 

them  briefly  —  so  that  his  own  course  should  not  be  conjectured. 
He  knew  that  the  work  of  securing  the  prizes,  and  refitting,  was 
one  to  consume  some  time ;  and  naturally  enough  concluded  that, 
this  done,  the  consorts  would  immediately  proceed  —  however  un 
generous  the  duty  —  in  pursuit  of  himself !  He  ran  out  to  sea, 
accordingly,  till  fairly  out  of  sight,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf; 
then  put  about,  and  shaped  his  course,  as  fast  as  he  might,  for  his 
secret  harborage  in  the  Stono. 


THE    NIGHT-MARCH.  539 


CHAPTER   LI. 

THE    NIGHT-MARCH. 

"  They  pass  from  sight,  but  whither  ?     Let  the  stars, 
That  watch  the  march  in  silence,  make  report." 

The  Seminole. 

CALVERT  returned  in  season,  as  he  believed,  to  his  anchorage 
in  the  Stono.  The  vessel  was  made  fast  to  the  shore.  It  was 
night,  bright  starlight.  Our  rover  lost  not  a  moment  in  making 
all  his  preparations  for  a  night-march.  He  called  his  lieutenants, 
Eccles  and  Hazard,  into  his  cabin.  Thither  also,  at  his  bidding, 
came  Belcher  and  Franks.  The  door  of  the  cabin  closed,  and 
all  parties  seated,  Calvert  said  : — 

"  Gentlemen,  you  are  probably  all  aware  of  the  task  that  is  be 
fore  us.  I  have  every  reason  to  be  assured  of  a  rising  of  the  red 
men.  I  am  satisfied  almost  of  the  very  night  which  they  have 
agreed  upon.  I  have  made  my  arrangements  accordingly,  and  at 
two  points  at  least  I  shall  be  prepared  to  encounter  them.  On 
this  business  I  shall  speed  myself.  I  shall  take  with  me  some 
fifty  of  the  crew.  I  shall  leave  thirty -five  with  the  ship  —  forty 
all  told.  These  will  be  quite  enough  for  her  working,  and  de 
fence  from  any  foe  whom  you  will  be  likely  to  encounter  in  these 
waters.  When  I  depart,  you  will  haul  off  from  the  shore,  and 
put  yourself  in  cover  from  the  sea,  between  the  islets.  There 
you  will  escape  notice  from  ships  of  size  passing  along  the  coast, 
while  you  will  be  safe  from  all  danger  from  the  savages,  unless 
they  venture,  as  is  hardly  likely,  to  attack  you  in  their  canoes. 
Not  only  will  they  not  dare  this,  while  you  are  in  deep  water ; 
but,  as  I  have  reason  to  think,  there  will  be  none  but  their  women 
left  along  the  shores.  The  warriors  will  be  busy  enough  with 
the  settlements.  But  this  must  not  make  you  neglectful.  You 


540  THE   CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

will  need  to  watch  just  as  closely  as  if  you  had  a  present  foe 
threatening  you  from  every  quarter.  We  know  not,  indeed,  but 
that  the  Spaniards  have  left  a  large  force  in  periagtuu,  after  the 
destruction  of  the  Cardross  colony,  to  penetrate  the  bays  and  in 
lets,  and  co-operate  with  the  savages  even  to  Charleston.  In  that 
event,  you  will  be  directly  in  their  route.  With  thirty-five  good 
men,  and  in  deep  water,  you  will  be  quite  equal  to  all  their  peri- 
aguas.  I  know  that  you  have  the  strength  and  courage.  It  is 
for  you  to  show  that  you  have  the  vigilance  and  intelligence  also. 
You  are  young  men  both,  and  the  whole  future  reputation,  honor, 
and  profit,  of  your  lives,  may  depend  upon  the  independent  com 
mand  which,  for  these  three  or  four  nights  following,  I  shall  trust 
to  your  hands.  I  hope  to  be  absent  no  longer.  We  shall  run  up4 
to-night,  as  far  as  the  Wappoo  entrance,  after  I  have  taken  on 
board  a  guide  who  is  to  meet  me  here  within  the  hour.  Thence 
when  I  have  landed,  you  will  return  to  this  bay,  and  take  you) 
position  as  I  have  counselled.  My  signal,  when  I  return,  shall 
be  three  muskets ;  and,  if  at  night,  three  rockets  also.  The  men 
whom  I  leave  with  you  shall  be  all  true  men.  I  shall  take  with 
me  all  (as  far  as  we  know  them)  of  those  whom  Fowler  had  se 
duced,  in  the  hope  that  they  will  feel  the  need  to  do  good  service, 
to  wipe  out  old  scores  of  ill  conduct. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  there  is  one  thing  further.  The  expe 
dition  upon  which  I  go  will  necessarily  be  one  of  peril.  It  may 
be  that  I  shall  never  return.  In  regard  to  my  own  fate,  I  have 
contemplated  all  the  results  and  necessities.  Let  us  now  consider 
yours.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  our  present  commission,  as  a  pri< 
vateer,  has  been  revoked  by  the  king ;  nay,  more :  under  the  ma 
lignant  influence  of  Spain,  and  his  own  weakness,  he  has  made 
that  pursuit  a  crime  which  he  had  once  authorized  as  a  duty.  It 
behooves  me,  therefore,  if  possible,  to  place  you  in  such  a  condi 
tion  as  to  enable  you  to  return  with  honor  to  the  service  of  Eng 
land,  and  to  escape  all  evil  consequences  from  the  king's  late  proc 
lamation.  Take  these  letters.  They  are  addressed  —  one  to  Sir 
William  Berkeley,  my  uncle  ;  one  to  Sir  John  Colleton,  who  was 
my  father's  friend ;  and  the  third  to  Sir  Edward  Berkeley,  the 
cassique  of  Kiawah,  in  this  province,  who  is  my  brother." 

The  young  officers  both  started  with  surprise.  He  proceeded, 
without  heeding  their  looks  of  inquiry : — 


THE    NIGHT-MARCH.  541 

"  These  facts,  hitherto,  were  only  known  to  my  faithful  friend 
and  servant,  Belcher.  I  do  not  wish  them  to  be  made  known 
now  to  any  but  yourselves,  nor  until  I  shall  have  failed  to  return. 
Should  this  happen,  you  will  communicate  immediately  to  Sir  Ed 
ward  Berkeley,  if  he  should  be  living ;  for  this  adventure,  which 
involves  my  danger,  will  in  like  manner  involve  his.  Should  he 
perish,  then  run  over  to  England,  without  fail,  and  rely  upon  these 
documents  to  plead  for  your  safety,  and  secure  your  future  em 
ployment  under  the  crown.  You  will  carry  with  you  a  sufficient 
argument  besides.  You  will,  of  your  own  free  minds,  make  a 
gift  of  a  noble  ship,  and  of  a  brave  crew,  and  good  officers,  to  the 
royal  marine.  I  hold  these  documents  —  which  contain  a  full  nar 
rative  of  our  adventures,  and  a  complete  statement  of  our  case — • 
to  be  ample  for  your  security,  though  they  might  not  be  for  mine. 
I  can  do  no  more.  The  rest  is  with  you,  and  in  the  hands  of  God  ! 
And  now,  gentlemen,  see  to  the  ship  as  if  she  were  the  apple  of 
your  eye  :  I  must  proceed  at  once  in  my  own  preparations.  Bel 
cher  will  call  off,  by  name,  all  the  marines  that  are  to  go  with  me. 
Let  ten  of  them  carry  muskets,  all  of  them  cutlasses  and  pistols, 
and  a  fe\v  tomahawks." 

He  dismissed  them  with  an  affectionate  embrace.  Will  Hazard, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  entreated  to  accompany  him ;  but  Calvert 
was  firm  in  his  refusal. 

"  No,  my  good  boy,  you  are  better  here.  Eccles  may  need  all 
the  help  you  can  give  him  ;  and  I  feel  that  I  can  trust  your  vigi 
lance,  no  less  than  your  skill  and  honor." 

When  they  were  gone,  he  had  a  long  conference  with  Belchei 
and  Franks,  in  respect  to  Zulieme  and  other  subjects  of  interest. 
Neither  of  them  knew  that  Zulieme  had  been  withdrawn  from  the 
city,  and  been  confided  to  the  custody  of  the  cassique.  So  far  as 
she  was  concerned,  Calvert  felt  himself  secure.  The  only  ques 
tion  was,  how  she  should  be  got  away  from  Charleston  ;  and  it 
was  arranged  that  Franks,  who  was  to  be  left  with  the  ship, 
should  contrive  it,  by  a  midnight  expedition,  in  a  boat  through 
Wappoo.  She  was  then  —  assuming  that  Calvert  was  no  more— — 
to  be  carried  home  to  the  hacienda  of  her  father,  on  the  isthmus. 
Briefly,  every  arrangement  was  made  for  each  necessity  and  ob 
ject  which  human  forethought  could  conceive.  Old  Franks,  by- 
the-way,  did  express  the  suspicion  that  Zulieme  might  be  impris- 


542  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

oned  for  her  husband,  if  suspected ;  and  that  the  cunning  of  Syl 
vester  might  lead  him  even  to  this.  But  Calvert  dismu'^ed  the 
suggestion  with  a  — 

"Pshaw!  —  What!  the  council  of  the  lords-propriety/ s  seize 
upon  a  woman,  and  on  such  pretext  ?  Impossible  !" 

And  no  more  was  said.  Calvert  at  once  went  on  7/iJi  his 
preparations.  He  clad  himself  in  the  hunting-shirt  ?//!  leggins 
of  the  backwoods  hunter,  with  cutlass,  pistols,  and  tomahawk. 
Belcher  was  likewise  habited.  Similar  suits  of  b?m  homespun 
were  provided  for  all  the  party,  the  better  for  concealment  in  the 
woods.  Nothing  was  allowed  to  be  worn  which  could  attract  by 
glare  or  glitter  —  nothing  white,  nothing  shining.  The  men  were 
all  ready,  and  even  eager.  They  always  relished  a  eruise  on  shore, 
even  though  a  battle  stood  awraiting  them  in  the  h'.ghway. 

In  less  than  an  hour,  there  were  certain  hoots  of  the  owl,  and 
certain  sounds  as  from  the  gong  of  a  night-hawk,  that  signalled 
them  from  the  shore.  Then  did  Calvert  know  that  Ligon  had 
reached  in  safety  the  place  of  appointment.  So  it  was  :  the  guide 
awaited  him.  He  was  taken  on  board,  and  the  little  cruiser  vun 
up  the  Stono  to  its  junction  with  the  Wappoo.  Here  the  party 
landed,  and  the  cruiser  put  about  after  an  hour,  the  tide  then  be 
ing  at  its  turning.  But  Calvert  and  his  company  were  gone  from 
sight  before  the  vessel  left  the  place.  They  were  soon  buried  in 
the  thick  darkness  of  the  night  and  forest.  But  Ligon  was  such 
a  guide  as  few  could  equal  in  the  country,  and  went  forward  with 
ease  and  confidence. 

He  brought  little  news,  but  this  was  interesting.  The  Indians 
were  about  in  small  parties,  all  tending  to  one  or  more  centres  of 
gathering.  One  had  attempted  entrance  at  Gowdey's  castle  by 
artifice,  but  the  old  sailor  was  too  much  for  them.  He  found  out 
that  they  were  eighteen  or  twenty  in  number ;  but  they  made  no 
absolutely  hostile  demonstration  —  unwilling,  perhaps,  by  any  pre 
mature  showing,  to  put  their  victims  on  their  guard.  But  that 
they  would  ultimately  attempt  the  castle,  and  all  other  exposed 
settlements,  there  was  no  doubt.  Such  was  Gowdey's  own  opin 
ion  ;  but  the  old  sailor-hunter  was,  as  he  deemed,  well  prepared 
for  them.  Of  what  was  doing  in  the  town,  Ligon  knew  nothing. 
He  had  heard  that  there  was  much  military  stir,  and  that  Flor 
ence  O'Sullivan  was  preparing  to  build  a  small  castle  on  the  isl. 


THK    NIGHT-MARCH.  543 

and,  at  the  eni  ranee  of  the  harbor,  which  was  to  carry  heavy  can 
non  against  shipping.  This  was  to  be  held  by  O'Sullivan  himself, 
who  was  a  doughty  man  of  arms,  a  Celt  of  characteristic  courage, 
nowise  bashful,  and  by  no  means  wanting  in  skill  and  cunning 
for  deeds  of  war.  Beyond  this  news,  Calvert  got  little  from  his 
guide. 

But  we  must  not  linger.  The  night-march  sped.  Ligon,  the 
guide,  spite  of  the  darkness,  went  forward  with  sufficient  boldness  ; 
the  whole  party  moving  silently,  and  in  the  well-known  order 
called  the  "  Indian  file,"  a  mode  of  progress  natural  to  the  forester, 
where  the  path  is  at  once  single  and  narrow.  It  is,  indeed,  be 
cause  of  this  narrowness  of  the  beaten  road  in  the  thickets,  that 
the  red  men  set  their  feet  down  in  a  right  line  with  the  body,  the 
toes  rather  turning  in  than  out ;  and  not  because  of  any  peculiar 
formation  of  foot  or  ancle.  Dark,  indeed,  and  dense  was  the  forest 
through  which  our  party  had  to  march.  It  lay  in  the  original  con 
dition  of  Nature  ;  at  least  of  a  growth  which  had  been  unbroken 
for  five  hundred  years.  Great  oaks,  each  spanning  its  half-acre ; 
gigantic  pines,  that  seemed  to  rush  up  into  the  very  heavens ; 
magnolias,  quite  as  gigantic,  and  more  beautiful  from  their  depth 
of  green,  and  the  rich  varnish  of  their  leaves,  now  covered  with 
their  great  snow-white  flowers ;  and  a  vast  variety,  besides,  of 
other  trees,  each  the  noblest  of  its  kind,  all  now  thickly  spread 
with  the  green  garniture  of  spring  advancing  to  summer;  and 
woven  together,  as  by  veins  and  arteries,  with  enormous  vines, 
that  wound  about  their  boughs,  and  bound  them  as  in  loving  em 
brace  of  leaves  and  blossoms.  The  atmosphere  was  thick  with 
the  scent  from  shrubs  and  flowers,  "  too  numerous  and  too  humble 
to  have  names." 

It  required  no  ordinary  skill  to  pilot  our  party  through  such  a 
wilderness.  But  Ligon  had  learned  to  thread  his  way  through 
this  and  other  like  regions,  in  the  darkness  as  in  daylight ;  so  that 
he  had  won  the  sobriquet,  among  the  Indians  themselves,  of 
"  The  Horned  Owl."  He  was  an  old  hunter  and  scout,  though 
not  yet  an  old  man.  He  was  silent,  and  cold,  and  stern,  like  the 
red  men ;  had  fought  them  in  various  forests,  and  entertained  for 
them  a  mortal  hatred,  which  was  due  to  a  history  of  most  bloody 
massacre,  in  which  his  younger  brother,  a  mere  boy,  had  perished 
and  lost  his  scalp.  Many  and  as  bloody  revenges,  had  Ligon 


544  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

taken  for  this  massacre ;  and  now  he  never  forewent  the  opportu 
nity  to  deal  sharp  and  sudden  judgment  upon  the  red-skins.  But 
of  all  this  history  Calvert  knew  nothing ;  and  perhaps  Gowdey,  who 
had  sent  him  to  Calvert,  was  just  as  ignorant.  All  that  he  knew 
was,  that  Ligon  was  a  scout  of  the  greatest  excellence  and  skill ; 
and  this,  in  Gowdey's  judgment,  was  being  a  person  of  most  ad 
mirable  virtues. 

Leading  the  way,  with  Calvert  following  close,  and  the  whole 
company  keeping  together,  though  in  a  long,  single  line,  Ligon 
made  a  rapid  progress  through  the  wood,  as  he  well  might,  turn 
ing  neither  to  one  side  nor  the  other.  But,  at  length,  as  the 
night  advanced,  he  beheld  a  great  light,  as  of  a  fire  shining 
through  the  thickets  on  the  right ;  and  this  was  at  a  point  nearly 
the  same  distance  from  Gowdey's  castle  as  from  the  barony  of 
Kiawah,  and  lying  somewhat  below  them,  and  near  the  course 
which  the  party  had  to  pursue.  The  guide  stopped  them  where 
they  stood. 

"  Now,"  said  Ligon,  "  you  must  stop  here,  captain,  while  I  go 
and  reconn'itre.  You  must  keep  the  men  still." 

This  was  the  custom  ;  and  the  party  of  Calvert  shrouded  them 
selves  in  the  woods,  well  hidden,  and  mute  as  mice,  while  Ligon 
went  forward.  He  was  gone,  perhaps,  the  most  of  an  hour. 
When  he  came  back,  he  said : — 

"  Now,  captain,  we  have  a  good  chance  at  these  bloody  red 
skins  !  There  's  some  thirty  of  the  cussed  savages  ;  and  they  Ve 
been  drinkin'  and  dancin',  as  is  the  way  with  'em,  when  they  git 
a  chance  at  the  liquor,  and  are  in  high  hope  of  somethin'  better. 
They  are  'camped  on  the  side  of  a  thick  bay,  full  of  water ;  and 
they  are,  by  this  time,  pretty  well  rum-fuddled.  We  Ve  only  got 
to  fetch  a  compass  round  the  bay  —  I'll  show  the  way  how  —  and 
we  kin  have  'em  in  a  net,  and  not  a  fellow  go  off  without  losin'  a 
sculp." 

"  Have  they  any  prisoners  among  'em  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

"  Not  as  I  see,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  we  will  let  'em  alone.  We  have  too  much  at  stake  now 
to  risk  anything." 

Ligon  was  discomfited  by  this  reply.  Surprise  of  an  enemy 
was,  to  him,  an  always-pleasant  performance.  He  walked  about 
a  little  in  a  sort  of  reverie  ;  but  anon  he  spoke  :-^- 


THE    NUiHT  MARCH.  545 

"  Let  me  go  take  another  and  closer  look  at  'em,  captain.  Ef 
ihey  have  prisoners,  I  did  n't  see  'em ;  but  I  did  n't  look  for  'em. 
It  may  be  they  have  some  prisoners  in  the  thick  of  the  camp. 
I  '11  take  a  sharper  look,  ef  you  say  so." 

"  Go  !"  said  Calvert.  "  If  they  have  prisoners,  we  must  rescue 
them  at  all  hazards.  But  bestir  yourself,  and  waste  no  more  time 
than  is  necessary." 

Ligon  set  forth  again  without  delay,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
He  was  absent  this  time  quite  an  hour.  He  had  seen  and  done 
something,  during  this  interval,  of  which  he  made  no  report  to 
Calvert.  But  there  were  no  prisoners.  Ligon  had  approached 
so  nigh,  that  he  could  see  the  whole  camp,  and  was  able  to  hear 
the  cries  of  the  warriors,  but  not  to  distinguish  their  words. 
There  were  no  women  among  them.  But  they  were  very  merry, 
nevertheless ;  full  of  strong  waters  and  sanguinary  appetites.  The 
rum  had  been  asserting  itself  with  no  little  potency ;  and,  as  Ligon 
had  suggested,  it  would  have  been  easy  to  have  surprised  and  de 
stroyed  the  whole  party,  which  had  no  reason  to  apprehend  any 
hostile  force  near  them,  and  was  accordingly  careless  of  any 
watch.  There  was  merry  laughter  and  jest  among  them,  uncouth 
dances,  and  wild  song.  Some  had  stretched  themselves  out  for 
sleep,  the  Jamaica  having  had  its  full  effect.  These  were  the 
older  men.  The  young  were  still  drinking,  and  gaming  with 
acorns,  a  sort  of  game  carried  on  by  guessing,  and  called  in  their 
tongue  " Kerakec-lakee-kee" — "The  Cheater,"  or  "The  game  that 
cheats."  On  this  game  they  were  betting  fox  and  deer  skins.  One 
young  fellow,  at  length,  jumped  up  from  the  ground,  and  flung  a 
skin,  which  he  had  lost,  to  another  opposite.  It  was  his  last,  yet 
he  gave  it  up  good-humoredly.  Then  stretching  himself,  with 
arms  aloft,  he  began  to  sing  the  famous  "  Crow-song''  of  the  Yem- 
assee,  as  he  walked  off  from  the  crowd,  approaching  the  very  spot 
where  Ligon  was  crouching  in  watch,  and  singing  as  he  went: — 

"  Ackelcpatee  madee, 

Indewanta  chaoboo  : 
Opamola  indola, 

Kittee  hana  sapawak  — 
Caw-chec-chow — chow  !  chow !  chow ! 

Caw  —  caw  —  caw  !  —  chow !  chow  !  chow  1" 

Thus  singing,  the  young  warrior  passed  into  the  thicket,  quite  out 


546  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   K1AWAH. 

of  sight  of  his  companions,  who  still  kept  on  their  play.  You 
could  hear  their  voices,  dealing  in  execrations,  or  exultation 
and  laughter,  as  the  parties  severally  won  and  lost.  He  drew 
nigh  to  Ligon.  The  scout  quickly  detached  his  couteau  de  chasse 
from  his  girdle,  a  heavy  and  sharp  instrument,  and  stood  up  close 
beside  a  great  oak  at  the  edge  of  an  old  path.  Here  he  waited, 
while  the  red  man  strode  on,  still  singing  his  catches  and  bits  of 
song.  Ligon  suffered  him  to  pass,  then  made  a  single  evolution 
of  his  arm ;  and  the  young  warrior,  with  a  solitary  gasp,  fell  for 
ward  on  his  face.  He  sang  no  more !  There  was  a  sound,  as  of 
a  heavy  body  falling  upon  the  dried  leaves,  that  made  the  players 
in  the  camp  lift  their  ears,  look  up,  and  listen.  They  spoke  to 
one  another ;  but  soon  resumed  their  game,  and  finally,  one  b 
one,  stretched  themselves  out  for  sleep.  Ligon  returned  to  Cal 
vert  as  quietly  as  when  he  had  gone  forth.  He  reported  the  red 
men  to  be  sleeping,  and  with  no  captives.  He  had  nothing  more 
to  communicate. 

When  the  savages  awoke  next  morning,  one  of  their  number 
was  missing.  This  was  the  young  warrior  who  had  gone  forth 
into  the  thickets  from  the  camp,  singing  the  song  of  the  crow. 
They  wondered  a  little  at  his  absence.  He  should  not  be  absent 
at  such  a  time,  as  he  was  one  of  their  "  braves ;"  and,  after  a  brief 
search,  they  found  him,  lying  along  the  "  path,"  about  eighty 
paces  from  the  camp.  He  was  quite  dead,  and  his  scalp  gone  — 
so  dexterously  taken  off,  that  it  might  have  been  the  work  of  an 
Indian.  He  had  been  slain  by  a  broad  knife,  with  a  single,  well- 
directed  thrust,  right  through  the  heart.  The  murderer  was 
never  known.  Ligon  kept  his  own  counsel.  He  had  no  passion 
for  fame,  but  was  making  privately  a  collection  of  scalps. 

The   march   proceeded,  without   further   incident.     But   day 
dawned,  and  the  party  was  still  some  distance  from  the  barony. 
Calvert  led  his  men  into  a  close  swamp-cover,  where,  having  first 
set  watches  all  about  the  encampment,  they  proceeded  to  take 
very  necessary  rest,  in  a  dense  wilderness,  quite  impenetrable  t 
any  passing  espionage.     Here  they  slept  for  several  hours,  and 
ate  with  good  appetite  at  awakening.     It  was  not  till  night  that 
the  progress  was  resumed ;  but,  long  before  midnight,  the  party 
had  reached  the  barony  of  Kiawah. 

Having  covered  his  men  temporarily  in  the  woods,  Calvert,  nc- 


THE   NIGHT-MARCH.  547 

compani  ?d  only  by  Belcher  and  Ligon,  all  well  armed,  approached 
the  open  grounds.  The  place  lay  fair  in  the  bright  starlight,  and 
silent  as  the  grave.  There  were  no  sentinels.  Not  even  a  watch 
dog  bayed.  A  light  faintly  shone  through  one  of  the  curtained 
windows  of  the  dwelling;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  anything  stir 
ring.  All  was  calm  and  peaceful,  as  if  Massacre  were  not  gliding, 
by  hourly  approaches,  with  the  step  and  cunning  of  the  tiger,  to 
the  unconscious  household.  Calvert  tried  the  fastenings  of  the 
house.  The  bolts  were  shot,  it  is  true ;  but  they  were  slight. 
From  the  main  dwelling  he  proceeded  to  one  about  a  hundred 
yards  distant.  This  was  a  "  block,"  windowless,  and  with  but  a 
single  door.  The  fabric  was  small  and  square,  but  lofty. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  the  armory  and  magazine.  To  make  it 
securely  accessible  in  the  event  of  danger,  there  should  have  been 
a  covered  way  to  it,  of  pickets,  from  the  dwelling.  The  pickets 
have  been  begun,  but  are  unfinished  ;  they  are  useless.  An  ene 
my  could  cover  the  space  between,  and  cut  off  all  connection  with 
the  house.  You  have  brought  the  key,  Belcher  ?" 

Belcher  produced  it  —  a  skeleton  or  master  key,  devised  cun 
ningly  for  the  purpose  of  opening  any  lock.  Calvert  was  as  well 
prepared  to  be  a  housebreaker  as  a  pirate.  Belcher  applied  the 
key ;  and  the  lock,  which  was  large  enough,  was  not  intricate :  it% 
wards  readily  yielded.  A  ship's  lamp,  which  Belcher  carried 
with  him,  enabled  them  to  see  some  fifty  stands  of  arms,  good 
English  muskets,  a  few  cutlasses,  a  score  or  two  of  pistols,  and  as 
many  small  barrels  of  gunpowder.  There  were  bullets,  also, 
ready  cast. 

"  A  pretty  good  armory,"  said  Calvert.  "  We  must  take  pos 
session  of  it.  Go,  Ligon,  and  bring  the  ten  men  whom  I  set  aside 
with  Craig.  You  see  that  the  walls  are  pierced  for  musketry  on 
all  sides.  Ten  men  can  keep  the  house,  unless  fire  shall  be  used 
upon  the  roof.  This  is  the  point  of  most  importance." 

Ligon  brought  up  the  men,  and  they  were  posted ;  food  was 
supplied  them,  and  a  means  of  egress ;  but  they  were  bade  to  be 
close,  and  keep  unseen. 

"  Now,"  continued  Calvort,  "  we  must  see  to  the  laborers.  They 
occupy  a  building  on  the  other  side,  some  two  hundred  yards  off. 
We  must  put  them  in  condition  to  make  a  defence.  In  all  prob 
ability,  they  have  taken  no  precaution,  and  sleep  with  open  doors ; 


548  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

but  take  the  key  along,  Belcher :  we  must  put  them  in  a  state  of 
preparation." 

Sure  enough,  as  Calvert  conjectured,  some  twenty  workmen 
slept  in  a  building,  remote  from  the  mansion  as  the  arsenal,  and 
with  open  doors.  But  their  house  was  a  strong  block,  pierced  for 
musketry  also,  where  a  good  defence  might  be  made.  Calvert 
suddenly  appeared  among  the  laborers,  rousing  them  from  sleep. 

"Who  is  the  chief  man  among  you?"  he  demanded,  as  they 
started  from  their  beds.  There  were  five,  or  more,  sleeping  in 
the  same  chamber.  The  house  consisted  of  four  apartments. 
Never  were  people  more  surprised.  Had  the  red  men  been  the 
visiters,  not  one  of  them  would  have  saved  his  scalp ;  and  Cal« 
vert  could  not  but  meditate  seriously  upon  that  amiable  insanity 
of  his  brother,  which,  because  of  his  humane  theory  about  the 
Indians,  had  exposed  all  these  people  to  be  butchered  in  their 
sleep. 

A  sturdy  English  laborer  came  forward  —  strong,  well  built, 
and  no  doubt  courageous  —  who  proclaimed  himself  the  foreman 
of  the  people.  His  name  was  Grandison,  possibly  a  descendant 
of  Sir  Charles :  such  are  the  reverses  of  fortune. 

Calvert  made  the  danger  apparent  to  him  in  few  words ;  made 
jpim  get  his  people  dressed,  and,  conducting  them  to  the  block 
house,  supplied  them  with  the  necessary  weapons. 

"  Everything  must  be  kept  secret,"  said  he.  "  We  are  to  be 
prepared  simply  for  whatever  happens  ;  all  your  people  —  every 
quarter  of  your  house.  It  is  pierced,  I  see,  for  musketry ;  and 
you  will  assign  each  man  his  weapon.  You  have  a  certain  num 
ber  to  each  chamber?" 

"  Yes,  sir  —  ten  to  two ;  and  six  in  each  of  the  others." 

"  But  one  half  must  go  to  work  to-morrow ;  and  they  must 
carry  pistols,  well  concealed.  The  other  half  must  be  on  the 
watch,  to  give  their  succor  at  a  moment's  warning.  The  red  men 
may  attack  to-night  or  to-morrow.  The  dawn  is  a  favorite  time 
with  them.  Or  they  may  attack  at  "  nooning,"  when  nobody  is 
prepared ;  or  they  may  defer  the  assault  till  night.  I  am  sure 
that  they  will  be  on  you  some  time  within  the  next  thirty-six  hours. 
See  that  you  follow  my  directions !  I  am  Captain  Harry  Berke 
ley,  the  brother  of  your  master,  the  cassique." 

The  workmen  touched  their  heads.      Calvert  continued : — 


THE   NIGHT-MARCH.  519 

"  I  shall  be  at  hand  to  succor  you.  I  have  fifty  men  within 
hearing,  all  well  armed.  So,  fear  nothing,  but  do  your  duty,  like 
good  Britons,  according  to  your  best  manhood;  and  —  one  thing 
—  should  you  see  the  red  men  running,  under  your  fire  or  ours, 
do  not  seek  to  pursue !  Keep  your  post.  If  they  are  to  be  pur 
sued,  our  foresters,  who  know  the  woods,  are  better  at  that  game 
than  you.  Be  prudent.  I  shall  probably  see  you  again.  But 
put  yourselves  in  readiness  now  ;  and,  if  you  sleep,  fasten  your 
doors  and  windows,  and  set  a  watch  first,  to  give  you  warning, 
whatever  happens.  The  night  may  possibly  pass  off  without 
alarm.  If  so,  to-morrow,  or  to-morrow  night,  is  the  time  of  dan 
ger.  But  you  are  warned  in  season." 

With  this,  Calvert  left  the  workmen,  and,  with  Belcher,  made 
his  way  back  to  the  block-house,  where  he  had  already  installed 
the  ten  musketeers.  Having  seen  this  done,  he  took  possession 
of  the  carriage-house  and  stables,  both  log-houses,  where  in  the 
loft  he  established  another  squad  of  ten.  These  were  all  to  lie 
perdu,  and  to  wake  only  at  the  proper  moment.  Calvert  then 
returned  to  the  woods.  These  he  well  knew.  He  had  explored 
them  often  enough.  His  solicitude  now  was,  that  the  Indians 
should  not  get  into  the  rear  of  his  party ;  and  some  time  was  con 
sumed  in  calculating  the  probabilities  with  regard  to  the  route  and 
manner  of  approach  of  the  red  men.  He  took  for  granted  that 
the  course  of  Cussoboe  would  be  from  below,  and  that,  fetching  a 
circuit  about  the  settlement,  he  would  proceed  directly  to  the  tree, 
in  the  hollow  of  which  the  sheaf  of  arrows  had  been  deposited. 
They  would  tell  their  own  story  ;  and,  no  doubt,  by  their  numbers, 
embarrass  the  old  warrior.  Of  course,  he  would  infer  his  son's 
neglect  of  duty.  To  place  his  men  in  such  position  as  would  en 
able  them  to  cover  the  open  grounds  and  buildings,  yet  keep  them 
from  discovery  till  the  last  moment,  was  Calvert's  object,  and  one 
of  some  difficulty ;  but  the  points  were  finally  chosen,  after  duo 
consultation  with  Ligon  and  Belcher.  This  and  many  other  mat 
ters  having  settled,  he  said  to  Belcher : — 

"  I  must  now  seek  and  see  my  brother.  I  leave  the  charge  of 
the  men  to  you  and  Ligon.  Keep  them  from  straggling.  I  shall 
be  with  you  before  daylight." 

He  took  the  skeleton-key  from  Belcher,  and  left  him,  pursuing 
the  straight  route  to  the  mansion-house. 


550  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   LIT. 

WHAT    THE    SAD    HEARTS    SAID    TO    EACH    OTHER. 

"  How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind !" — SHELLEY. 

THE  cassique  of  Kiawah  was  perhaps  not  the  only  sleepless 
watcher  that  night  in  his  mansion-house.  He  was,  for  some  time, 
however,  and  at  the  period  when  we  prefer  to  look  in  upon  him, 
the  only  one  who  sat  watching  in  the  chamber  of  his  wife.  Her 
condition,  now  utterly  hopeless,  rendered  that  sort  of  watch  unne 
cessary  which  is  expected  and  needed  to  afford  occasional  succor 
and  relief.  She  was  dying,  certainly ;  but  by  those  slow  and  al 
most  imperceptible  degrees  which  belong  to  most  cases  of  irreme 
diable  decline.  The  strife  was  over  with  the  hope ;  and,  if  her 
assured  fate  had  not  produced  a  feeling  of  perfect  resignation  in 
all  hearts,  it  had  yet  brought  to  every  head  in  the  family  a  full  in 
stinct  of  submission.  Nothing  more  could  be  done  for  the  sweet 
victim,  but  to  tend  upon  and  simply  note  her  successive  changes  ; 
and,  slight  though  they  were,  the  cassique  did  not  fail  to  discern 
and  to  feel  them  all.  She  herself  appeared  to  be  something  more 
than  resigned,  in  her  perfect  consciousness  of  her  hopelessness. 
It  would  seem  as  if  her  spirit  had  become  altogether  satisfied ;  as 
if  the  brain,  no  longer  fevered,  had  subsided  into  calm.  She  had 
certainly  become  freed  from  all  that  spasmodic  and  excited  im 
pulse  which  had  caused  her  uncertain  moods  and  restless  energies 
before.  Her  exhausted  physique  did  not  now  permit  her  to  wan 
der  about,  even  if  her  mental  nature  had  still  occasioned  the  de 
sire.  But  such  was  no  longer  the  case.  Her  mind  had  become 
comparatively  placid  ;  her  temper  serene  and  sweet.  There  was 
now  no  impatient,  discontented  thought ;  no  lingering,  living  hope, 
striving  at  satisfaction,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted,  seeming  to 


WHAT    THE    SAD    HEARTS    SAID    TO    EACH    OTHER.         551 

exist  in  that  soul  which  was  simply  hovering  on  the  confines  of 
life,  and  needing  but  the  severance  of  a  few  strings,  to  soar  to 
abodes  of  sweeter  peace  and  happier  existence.  Her  conscious 
ness  was  clear ;  had  been  growing  clearer  for  some  time  ;  even  as 
her  frame  had  been  sinking  with  exhaustion.  She  no  longer  sang 
those  fitful  snatches  of  song  which  formerly  burst  from  her  in  spas 
modic  gushes  of  pain,  or  passion,  or  a  maddening  fancy.  The 
delirium  had  gone  off  entirely,  and  all  her  faculties  seemed  to 
grow  bright  as  she  drew  near  to  the  close  of  her  sorrows.  Her 
eye  was  strangely  brilliant ;  her  voice  was  low,  but  how  exquis 
itely  sweet  in  all  its  tones  !  Her  skin  was  transparent ;  the  blue 
veins  as  clearly  drawn  upon  it  as  if  defined  with  the  pencil.  Her 
hearing  had  become  wonderfully  acute.  She  could  distinguish, 
from  a  distance,  the  approaching  footstep,  however  lightly  put 
down.  Nay,  she  could  say  who  it  was  that  came.  All  now 
knew  that  she  was  dying.  Even  the  mother,  who  had  deceived 
herself  so  long  in  regard  to  her  daughter's  condition,  had  resigned 
all  hope  ;  and  the  final  issue  was  simply*  a  question  of  time,  and 
that  short,  as  between  one  hour  and  one  week !  How  long  could 
that  exhausted  and  attenuated  frame  hold  the  struggle  with  the 
mighty  enemy  who  had  already  taken  possession  of  all  the  strong 
holds  of  her  life  —  who  was  in  her  heart,  as  in  the  citadel  of  her 
strength,  undermining  all  its  props  and  powers  ?  There  were  mo 
ments  when,  so  still  she  lay,  with  eyes  closed,  and  lips  scarcely 
seeming  to  breathe,  though  parted,  that  those  around  her  fancied 
the  event  had  taken  place,  and  that  she  had  sunk  into  the  sacred 
slumber,  as  suddenly  and  quietly  as  the  child,  after  a  violent  playv 
sinks  into  natural  sleep.  But,  as  they  drew  near  to  see,  then 
would  her  eyes  open  with  that  marvellous  brightness  of  gaze; 
then  would  the  faint  smile  mantle  over  her  pallid  lips,  as  a  sudden 
sunbeam  flushes  with  color  a  curl  of  drifted  snow. 

This  night,  after  long-protracted  watching,  the  mother  had  fallen 
asleep  beside  her  couch  at  an  early  hour  of  the  evening.  She 
and  the  housekeeper  were  both  exhausted.  The  cassique  gently 
awakened  them,  and  persuaded  them  to  retire.  Olive  understood 
him,  and  laid  her  thin,  wan  fingers  upon  her  mother's  head,  and 
smiled  her  wishes,  as  in  support  of  his ;  then  murmured  them,  to 
the  same  effect. 

The  cassique  was  left  alone  with  the  dying  woman.     When  all 


552  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

were  gone,  and  the  room  was  silent,  she  motioned  him  beside  her; 
then  said,  in  a  whisper : — 

"  Will  you  raise  me  a  little,  Sir  Edward  ?  —  another  pillow,  if 
you  please." 

Never  did  loving  hands  more  dutifully  or  gently  minister  than 
did  his. 

"  Sit  beside  me,  Sir  Edward,  if  you  please,  a  little  while." 

He  would  have  restrained  her  from  speech. 

"  You  will  fatigue  yourself,  dear  Olive.'1 

"No,  my  husband  —  not  so.  Sit  quietly,  and  let  me  speak.  I 
must  speak  now,  if  ever  !" 

"You  know  how  I  should  love  to  hear  you,  dear  Olive  —  how  I 
have  always  loved  to  hear  you ;  but  you  are  so  feeble  now  — 
BO—" 

"  I  am  strong  as  I  shall  ever  be,  dear  Sir  Edward."  And  her 
voice  now  grew  louder,  though  still  low  "  You  do  not  deceive 
yourself,  you  can  not  deceive  me,  as  to  my  fate !  What  strength 
is  left  me  I  must  use,  to"  acquit  myself  to  you,  and  to  entreat  your 
forgiveness  for  my  most  unfortunate  offence  !" 

"  Oh  Olive,  my  forgiveness  !  Dear  wife,  you  need  make  no  such 
prayer  to  me  !  Alas  !  it  is  your  pity,  your  forgiveness,  which  / 
should  implore  !  I  who — " 

He  could  not  finish  the  sentence,  save  by  sobs.  His  voice  fal 
tered,  ancF  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  couch  beside  her  to  con 
ceal  his  emotions.  Her  hand  gently  sought  his  head,  and  she 
suffered  it  to  rest  beside  rather  than  upon  it,  detaching  a  lock  of 
his  long  hair,  and  holding  it  between  the  fingers.  A  deep  sigh 
followed  —  a  brief  pause  —  and  then  she  spoke,  in  low,  sweet,  mur 
muring,  but  decided  accents  : — 

"  No,  Sir  Edward,  the  wrong  is  all  mine.  It  was  not  for  me 
as  a  maiden  —  not  now  for  me  as  a  wife  —  to  reproach  him  who 
sought  me  with  love,  and  who  has  striven  to  nurture  me  with 
love !  It  was  for  me  to  have  said  frankly,  and  with  all  the  bold 
ness  of  an  earnest  passion  :  '  This  heart  is  wedded  to  another  — 
it  is  not  mine  to  give  ;  it  can  never  be  thine  !'  " 

"  Ah  !  would  to  God,  dear  Olive,  that  thou  hadst  so  spoken  !" 
ejaculated  the  cassique,  with  a  deep  groan. 

"I  was  a  child  —  weak  where  I  should  have  been  strong  —  and 
I  yielded  to  a  mother's  prayers,  when  it  would  have  been  a  thou- 


WHAT  THE  SAD  HEARTS  SAID  TO  EACH  OTHER.    553 

sand  times  better  to  have  yielded  to  God !  And  yet,  Sir  Ed 
ward,  I  yielded  not  against  my  own  will.  If  it  had  been  pos 
sible  that  my  heart  should  have  gone  to  another,  having  lost  the 
one  to  whom  it  had  been  consecrated,  it  had  gone  to  you  in  pref 
erence  to  that  of  any  other  mortal  man.  I  could  love  you,  Sir 
Edward  —  I  do  love  you,  next  to  him  whom  I  loved  first  and  best 
of  all,  and  more  than  I  have  ever  loved  any  human  being.  As  I 
am  living  now,  Sir  Edward,  though  so  very  soon  to  die,  I  pray 
you  to  believe  what  I  tell  you !" 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  and  carried  it  to  his  lips,  covered  it 
with  kisses,  and  sobbed  over  it  convulsively,  replying  with  a  cho 
king  and  husky  speech  — 

"  Oh,  how  I  thank  you  and  bless  you  for  this,  dear  Olive !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  Sir  Edward  ;  never  speech  from  woman's  heart 
more  true  !  In  so  much  did  you  resemble  him;  in  form  and  face ; 
in  look  and  action  ;  in  tone  and  thought ;  in  the  generous  warmth 
of  your  affection;  in  the  lofty  disinterestedness  of  your  love  —  oh, 
I  should  have  been  worse  than  blind  and  foolish,  dear  Sir  Edward, 
could  I  have  been  insensible  to  your  virtues,  your  devotion,  your 
generous  forbearance,  your  kind  indulgence!  I  felt  it  all  —  ah, 
my  husband  —  I  call  you  so  now  —  I  felt  how  near  I  was  to  lov 
ing  you,  at  the  very  moment  when  I  most  shrank  from  contact 
with  you !" 

"  I  understand  it,  Olive !     Oh,  yes,  I  have  long  understood  it." 

"But  you  were  not  he!  alas,  no!  and  I  felt  that  I  could  not 
love  you  enough  —  not  as  I  ought  —  and  that  I  had  deceived  you. 
I  still  too  much  loved  another.  I  had  done  you  wrong." 

"  No,  no,  no  !     Say  not  that,  Olive  !" 

"Yes!  oh,  yes!  For,  Sir  Edward,  I  still  loved  him  —  still 
thought  of  him  —  still  moaned  for  him  with  a  heart  as  much  dis 
satisfied  as  was  my  conscience,  which  perpetually  chicled  me,  as  a 
wedded  wife,  for  the  passion  which  I  could  noUhelp  but  feel  for  him  ! 
My  heart  was  making  my  conscience  daily  more  and  more  dissat 
isfied.  I  felt —  knew  —  very  soon,  that  something  had  not  been 
told  you,  which  ought  to  have  been  told  ;  which  I  should  have 
told  you,  if  nobody  else  had  done  it,  before  I  consented  to  become 
your  wife.  But,  indeed,  dear  Sir  Edward,  I  thought  it  had  been 
done.  Forgive  me,  my  husband,  that  I  did  not  assure  myself  of 
this  —  that  I  spoke  not  till  it  was  too  late !" 

24 


554  THE    CASSigUK    OF    KfAYVAH. 

"  Not  too  late   Olive !" 

"  Alas  !  yes  ;  too  late  for  both  of  us  —  too  late  for  all  three!" 

Great  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  for  a  brief  space  she  was 
silent.  The  cassique  strove,  meanwhile,  to  murmur  out  his  bro 
ken  assurances  —  to  soothe  after  a  fashion,  and  console  ;  and  per 
haps  he  was  successful  in  due  degree,  as  his  own  emotions  for 
bade  that  he  should  be  coherent  in  his  speech.  When  he  was 
silent,  she  resumed  : — 

"  O  Sir  Edward,  judge  of  the  sense  of  guilt  and  remorse  —  of 
useless  repentance  —  in  my  bosom,  by  the  agonies  I  have  endured  ; 
by  the  temporary  madnesss  which  I  suffered ;  by  the  rapid  wast 
ing  of  strength,  youth,  and  health ;  by  the  wreck,  so  soon  to  be 
utter  ruin,  of  what  you  see  before  you  !  If  I  erred,  dear  Sir  Ed 
ward,  the  error  has  been  fearfully  atoned.  And  I  did  err !  Oh 
weak,  weak  !  very,  very  weak  !" 

His  groan  alone  answered  her. 

"Yet,  I  was  so  young  —  am  so  young;  and  —  and  —  and  he! 
Oh,  forgive  me,  my  husband,  that  I  am  forced  to  speak  of  him !" 

"  Speak  of  him,  dear  Olive,  with  all  your  heart !  Oh,  my  poor 
Olive,  do  believe  me,  that  if,  by  my  own  life,  I  could  give  you 
back  your  youth,  and  put  you  where  you  were  before  the  cruel 
Fates  had  made  me  your  fate,  I  should  now  know  no  greater  glad 
ness  than  to  die  for  you,  and  in  the  last  moments  of  consciousness 
to  be  able  to  place  your  hand  in  the  hand  of 'Harry,  my  brother  — 
my  noble  brother  —  whom,  as  well  as  yourself,  I  have  so  cruelly 
but  unwittingly  destroyed !  Yes,  on  my  life,  on  my  soul,  Olive, 
this  would  I  do,  and  die ;  though,  even  in  doing  it,  Olive,  I  should 
still  be  free  to  tell  you  that  the  heart  of  Edward  Berkeley  was  no 
less  sworn  to  you  than  that  of  the  more  fortunate  Harry." 

"  I  believe  you,  my  lord  —  my  husband  !  It  is  so  sweet,  now, 
though  so  late,  that  we  understand  each  other !  We  can  sit  in 
the  darkness  together,  dear  Sir  Edward.  Do  cover  that  light. 
Let  there  be  no  light.  Sit  here,  then,  and  we  will  commune  fur 
ther.  You  will  not  see  my  face ;  and  I  shall  hear  you  just  the 
same." 

He  obeyed  her  —  covered  the  light  in  the  chimney,  so  that  it 
shed  no  gleams  over  the  chamber ;  then  came  back  and  resumed 
his  seat  beside  her  :  and  she  feebly  put  forth  her  hand  and  grasped 
hi*,  somewhat  nervously,  between  her  attenuated  fingers. 


WHAT   THE   SAD    HEARTS   SAID    TO    EACH    OTHER.        555 

"And  now,  dear  Sir  Edward,  I  have  a  prayer  to  make  to  you 
in  behalf  of  my  mother.  Her  love  for  me  —  her  desire  to  see  me 
well  established  —  these  have  led  her  into  grievous  error,  which 
has  hurt  both  of  us  to  the  soul.  But  she  meant  me  good ;  she 
designed  you  no  evil :  she  has  only  been  guilty  of  a  very  sad  mis 
take.  It  is  one  upon  which  I  do  not  wish  to  dwell.  It  is  the 
saddest  of  all  my  thoughts.  I  feel  sure  that  no  words  of  mine 
can  express  fully  my  own  sense  of  her  shocking  error.  Perhaps 
you  will  feel  it  even  more  painfully  than  I  do.  But,  nevertheless, 
I  pray  you,  at  this  moment,  when  my  little  lamp  of  life  is  about 
to  be  extinguished  —  I  pray  you  to  forgive  her! — " 

"  I  do  !  I  do,  Olive  —  my  poor  Olive  !  I  do  forgive  her,  though 
she  has  crushed  us  both  !" 

"  Do  I  not  feel  it?  Never  was  so  fatal  an  error !  Thanks  for 
this  mercy  —  this  kindness  !  May  I  plead  for  more,  dear  Sir  Ed 
ward?" 

"  Speak,  Olive.     Your  prayers  shall  be  my  laws  !" 

"  I  would  rather  have  them  your  loves." 

"  Loves  they  shall  be  to  me,  and  with  perpetual  regard  to  you, 
Olive !" 

"  It  is  enough !  You  will  shelter  her,  Sir  Edward  ?  She  is 
pOor — has  no  resource  now  but  in  your  bounty;  and,  unhappily, 
she  is  one  of  those  who  live  in  that  foreign  world  which  rather 
asks  a  palace  for  the  eye  than  a  home  for  the  heart." 

"  I  know !  I  comprehend  you,  Olive.  Say  no  more.  She 
shall  be  well  provided  for.  Briefly,  dear  heart,  I  will  do  for  her 
as  if  she  were  my  own  mother.  She  shall  return  to  England — " 

«  Ah  !     And  you  ?— " 

"  Will  remain  here,  Olive,  where  I  will  make  my  temple  and 
my  tomb  !  Your  mother  will  not  need  me,  nor  I  her  !  In  Eng 
land  she  shall  have  '  The  Willows'  during  her  life ;  and  I  shall 
make  such  provision  for  her  there,  that  there  shall  be  no  lack  of 
means  essential  to  that  social  position  which  she  has  always  so 
much  valued." 

"Alas!  yes!"  —  with  a  deep  sigh.  "I  could  hope  no  more, 
dear  Sir  Edward;  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  so  much.  Thanks  — 
thanks !" 

"  What  more,  Olive  ?  Speak,  dear  wife,  and  do  not  fear.  Be 
lieve  me,  I  so  thoroughly  understand  all  your  necessities,  that  — 


556  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

I  never  loved  you  more  than  at  this  moment,  when  to  speak  o? 
mortal  love  is  such  a  mockery !" 

"  Say  not  so,  dear  Sir  Edward,  when  we  feel  how  sweetly  it 
harmonizes  hearts  between  which  the  chasm  has  been  hitherto  so 
deep  and  wide ;  when  it  strengthens  me  to  speak  with  a  courage 
such  as  I  never  knew  in  the  days  of  my  health  and  youth ;  when 
it  moves  you,  who  have  been  so  sadly  wronged,  to  be  so  merciful 

—  so  nobly  loving  —  with  such  magnanimity  and  grace!     Ah! 
how—" 

"  No  more,  Olive,  I  pray  you  !     I — " 

"  Suffer  me,  Sir  Edward  !  Yes,  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice  — 
on  the  verge  of  the  grave  —  I  must  plead  for  the  beauties  of  that 
mortal  love  —  vanishing  as  it  may  seem  —  which  I  hold  to  be 
etill  sweet,  however  faint  it  gleams  from  that  fountain  of  Immortal 
Love  which  is  promised  to  the  pure  hearts  in  a  sphere  where 
there  can  be  no  loss !  I  believe  in  my  own  heart,  Sir  Edward, 
and  in  yours,  and  in  his  —  your  brother's!  I  believe  that  yours 
and  his  have  been  equally  capable  of  that  heart-sacrifice  upon 
which  Love  hath  need  to  feed  for  life  !  And  —  I  may  say  some 
thing  for  my  own  !  O  Sir  Edward,  I  am  now  dying  for  it !" 

Mis  head  bent  over,  and  was  hidden  upon  the  shrouded  bosom 
of  the  speaker.  She  resumed  : — 

"  I  shall  die  happy,  knowing  this !  This  love,  which  mortal 
life  has  never  satisfied  —  could  never  compensate  —  must  be  im 
mortal  ;  for  there  must  be,  under  a  God  of  love,  justice,  meicy,  a 
necessary  principle  of  compensation.  How  I  loved  Harry,  your 
brother,  HE,  the  good  God,  alone  can  know ;  how  Harry  loved 
me,  I  have  felt  and  feel !  And,  dear  Sir  Edward,  I  know  your 
heart  —  how  true,  how  pure,  how  constant,  how  magnanimous,  in 
all  its  dealings  with  mine  ;  and,  at  times,  when  it  was  impossible 
for  me  to  plead,  or  you  to  comprehend,  the  miseries  and  the  mys 
teries  of  mine  !  Only  believe  now,  my  lord  and  husband,  that  my 
heart  would  have  been  quite  satisfied  with  yours,  would  have 
been  devoted  to  yours,  had  it  not  been  for  the  earlier  call  of  love 
which  it  first  heard  from  his !  And  had  his  not  continued  to  call 

—  as   I  deemed,   from   spirit-lands  —  I   had   probably  as  gladly 
yielded  my  affections  to  you  as  I  should  have  done  to  him.     But 
there  was  a  power  —  it  is  so  strange  to  think  of  it!  —  a  perpetual 
voice,  as  from  the  tomb,  appealing  to  my  heart,  and  suggesting 


WHAT    THE    SAD    HEARTS    SAID    TO    EACH    OTHER.        557 

the  doubt  —  nay,  the  absolute  denial  —  of  his  death!  Was  it  his 
voice  ?  Kow  could  it  be  ?  He  was  living,  and  perhaps  thou 
sands  of  miles  away  !  Whose  was  it,  then  ?  There  is  a  won 
drous  mystery  in  it,  Sir  Edward  !  Surely,  there  must  have  been 
a  spiritual  presence  here,  admonishing  me  of  the  truth,  against  all 
mortal  evidence  !  What  else  should  I  believe,  or  think  ?  Then, 
he  came  —  in  sooth,  was  living;  had  me  in  his  embrace;  and  — 
but  you  know  all !" 

"  All !  all !  Say  no  more,  Olive,  my  wife  !  And  yet,  but  for 
your  feebleness  and  pain,  I  would  have  you  speak  on  for  ever !" 

"  Alas  !  it  can  not  be.  It  requires  some  effort  to  lift  my  voice. 
Yet — our  boy  —  our  Harry!  I  would — " 

Her  voice  faltered. 

"  What,  my  Olive  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  would  have  our  Harry  beloved  by  him,  your  brother ! 
Do  not  let  him  avoid  or  dislike  the  child.  Pray  him,  for  my 
sake,  dear  Sir  Edward,  to  love  your  child  —  and  mine  !" 

And,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  sobbing,  the  dying  woman  sank 
back  exhausted  !  The  cassique  was  terrified,  thinking  the  mo 
ment  of  trial  had  come.  He  called  loudly  ;  and  from  an  adjoin 
ing  chamber,  Zulieme,  who  had  promised  Mrs.  Masterton  to  as 
sume  the  watch  at  midnight,  suddenly  made  her  appearance,  and 
brought  some  drops  which  had  been  provided  for  these  exigencies. 
The  little  wife  of  the  rover  had  all  at  once  begun  to  be  useful  — 
nay,  to  feel  a  sort  of  pride  and  pleasure  in  proving  so.  Olive 
soon  revived  under  her  ministrations ;  but,  as  she  kept  her  eyes 
shut,  and  appeared  desirous  of  repose,  the  cassique  left  her  in  Zu- 
lieme's  charge,  and  proceeded  to  the  hall,  where,  all  in  darkness, 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  sofa,  yielding  himself  up  to  the  sweet 
and  bitter  thought  which  naturally  grew  out  of  his  situation. 

Here  a  sort  of  oblivion  of  all  things  seized  for  the  time  upon 
his  senses.  He  had  watched  nightly  ;  had  toiled  daily  ;  was  en- 
"eebled  by  fatigue.  He  had  brooded,  as  he  thought,  for  a  long 
ime,  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  hall  —  meditating  the 
mysteries  of  that  chamber  which  he  had  so  recently  left.  Perhaps 
he  slept ;  but  he  could  scarcely  persuade  himself  of  this.  He  was 
awakened.  He  fancied  he  heard  the  shooting  of  bolts,  but  he 
stirred  not.  At  length,  he  detected  a  footfall  —  slight,  like  that 
of  a  woman.  He  thought  of  Olive.  She  might  be  dying.  She 


058  THK    CASSIQUK    OF    KIAWAH. 

might  be  dead.  He  started  up  and  rushed  into  the  passage-way 
whence  he  would  have  made  his  way  to  her  chamber,  when  lie 
felt  himself  encumbered  —  clasped  firmly  in  the  hands  of  a  strong 
man.  His  instincts  prompted  the  instant  use  of  his  muscles.  He 
would  have  thrown  off  the  intruder,  but  found  himself  firmly 
held ;  while  a  voice,  which  he  at  once  knew  —  though  subdued  to 
a  whisper — said,  hurriedly  : — 

"It  is  you,  Edward  —  I  am  Harry.  Do  not  be  excited.  I 
come  with  love  —  with  a  brother's  love.  Conduct  me  to  a  private 
room,  and  bring  a  light !" 

"  Harry,  my  brother,  you  come  at  an  awful  moment !" 

A  id  I  am  glad  that  I  come  at  a  moment  when  Edward  Berke 
ley  acknowledges  awe.  But  lead  me,  and  get  a  light.  I  have 
Ithat  to  say  which  will  suffer  little  time." 

Taking  him  by  the  hand,  the  cassique  led  his  brother  into  the 
hall  which  he  had  just  left,  and  conducted  him  to  the  sofa.  Here 
he  seated  him,  while  he  went  to  bring  a  light.  We  can  easily 
'jonjec',ure  how  Harry  had  effected  his  entrance. 


VOICES    OF   THE    NIGHT. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

VOICES    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

"Look  !  look  }    One  fire  burns  dim.     It  quivers  —  it  goes  out !" 

Thalaba. 

THE  cassique  was  not  a  little  surprised  by  his  visitor.  As  re 
quested,  he  procured  candles,  two  of  which  Calvert  lighted  in 
stantly,  and  placed  in  front  of  a  window  which  was  visible  from 
the  forest  where  Belcher  and  Ligon  had  been  left  with  the  ma 
rines.  He  then  proceeded,  as  briefly  as  possible,  to  report  to  his 
brother  the  affair  which  had  brought  him,  the  danger  as  it  ap 
peared  to  his  mind,  and  the  force  which  he  had  arrayed  to  meet  it. 
It  is  probable  that,  filled  with  the  peculiar  griefs  which  then  dis 
tressed  him,  the  cassique  would  have  given  little  heed  to  his  broth 
er's  apprehensions.  He  was  quite  as  favorably  disposed  to  the 
red  men  as  ever ;  it  was  difficult  to  disabuse  him  of  his  impres 
sions  ;  but  when  he  with  some  degree  of  indifference  began  to  de 
clare  his  doubts,  the  other  said  abruptly,  and  somewhat  impa 
tiently  : — 

"  Edward  Berkeley,  you  have  no  right  to  trifle  with  other  lives 
than  your  own.  You  have  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  indulging 
in  your  passion  of  philanthropy,  that  you  fail  to  see  things  with 
your  natural  good  judgment.  But,  the  danger  is  no  longer  ques 
tionable.  It  is  not  now  a  thing  of  speculation,  but  of  positive  evi 
dence.  I  have  myself  made  a  circuit,  only  last  night,  of  a  camp 
of  fifty  warriors,  all  well  armed,  and  not  quite  twelve  miles  from 
you.  The  place  is  evidently  a  rendezvous,  where,  by  this  time, 
there  may  be  from  two  to  five  hundred  more !  There  has  btan 
a  gathering  of  a  thousand  on  the  Savannah  river ;  and  are  you  to 
learn,  for  the  first  time,  of  the  utter  destruction  of  the  settlement 


560  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

of  Lord  Cardross,  at  Beaufort,  by  the  Spaniards,  no  doubt  assisted 
by  the  Indians?" 

"  Good  God !  is  it  possible  ?" 

"  True,  every  syllable  !  These  things  are  certain.  But  where 
is  your  Indian  boy  —  the  hunter?  Is  he  on  the  premises?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  has  a  little  lodge  to  himself,  within  fifty 
yards  of  the  dwelling,  where  he  sleeps." 

*'  Ah  !  does  he  sleep  ?     We  must  see  if  he  is  in  it." 

"  But,  what  of  him  ?     He  is  a  mere  boy." 

"  So  is  a  powder-monkey :  but  he  may  fire  a  magazine  !  He 
has  been  put  with  you,  by  old  Cussoboe,  for  this  very  purpose. 
He  is  a  spy ;  something  more,  indeed,  if  my  suspicions  be  well 
founded.  By  his  hands,  no  doubt,  your  keys,  especially  of  you 
armory  and  arsenal,  are  to  be  delivered  to  Cussoboe,  at  midnight 
when  you  all  sleep  !" 

The  cruiser  then  narrated  all  that  he  knew  of  the  habits  of  the 
boy  —  of  the  concealed  sheaf  of  arrows,  and  how  he  had  supplied, 
on  several  occasions,  the  place  of  the  arrows  which  had  been 
broken,  so  as  to  disorder  the  mutual  calculations  of  chief  and 
boy. 

"The  keys!"  —  the  cassique  hurried  away  to  hunt  them  up. 
"  They  are  all  here,"  he  said,  returning.  "  And  when  do  you 
expect  the  savages  ?" 

"  This  very  night,  according  to  the  original  count  of  arrows,  or 
to-morrow  night  at  farthest.  It  must  be  one  or  t'  other.  Not 
knowing  whether  the  arrow  first  broken  was  counted  inclusively, 
or  from,  it  is  not  easy  to  say  positively  which  is  the  night.  "We 
must  prepare  for  both." 

"  To-night  ?     Why,  it  is  already  midnight." 

"  True,  but  '  the  ides  of  March'  are  not  over !  It  is  at  the  very 
hour  of  the  dawn  that  the  red  men  most  frequently  choose  to  be 
gin  the  attack.  But  never  you  fear"  —  seeing  that  the  cassique 
was  starting  away,  full  of  excitement  —  "I  have  anticipated  their 
movements  quite  as  well  as  you  could  have  done,  had  you  known 
sooner  of  the  affair.  I  had,  indeed,  made  preparations  that  you 
should  know.  Have  you  not  heard  from  Gowdey  ?" 

"  Not  lately.  He  gave  me  some  warnings,  some  time  ago  ;  but 
J  made  light  of  them." 

"  You  were  wrong.     Gowdey  is  an  authority,  in  his  province, 


VOICES   OF   THE   NIGHT.  561 

who  might  save  all  your  governors  and  councils.  But,  did  he 
send  you  no  letter  from  me  ?" 

"None." 

"  It  is  well,  then,  that  I  relied  upon  no  other  agency  than  my 
own.  Had  your  governor  done  as  I  counselled,  Cardross  and  his 
colony  would  have  been  saved.  It  is  lucky  I  am  not  too  late 
here." 

The  cassique  was  now  quite  willing  to  listen  to  his  brother. 

"  Before  disturbing  you,"  continued  he,  "  I  made  all  prepara 
tions  for  your  defence.  I  have  brought  a  strong  force  with  me  ; 
have  taken  possession  of  your  armory,  which  I  have  garrisoned 
with  half  a  dozen  stout  fellows.  I  have  converted  carriage-house 
and  stables  into  fortresses  also.  I  have  roused  your  laborers,  and 
armed  them  ;  given  them  instructions  what  to  do ;  and  these  lights 
are  designed  to  apprize  a  party,  which  I  have  in  the  woods,  that 
you  are  ready  to  receive  a  score  of  well-armed  men  in  your  man 
sion-house.  You  have  a  closed  basement,  I  perceive,  which  I 
take  to  be  unoccupied.  We  must  put  them  there,  without  their 
presence  being  known.  I  will  now  withdraw  the  lights.  They 
have  served  their  purpose.  My  men  will  be  here  in  a  few  min 
utes  more." 

The  cassique  was  full  of  wonder,  but  he  had  hardly  time  to  ex 
press  it ;  a  muffled  sound,  as  of  heavy  footsteps,  at  that  moment 
being  evident  without.  Stealthily  the  door  was  opened  ;  and,  in 
as  much  silence  as  possible,  Belcher  entered  with  his  squad.  Not 
a  moment  was  lost  in  hurrying  them  down  into  the  basement. 

"  And,  now,  see  if  the  hunter-boy  is  within-doors  —  within  his 
cabin,"  said  our  rover.  "  Possibly  he  is,  for  my  substitution  of 
the  new  for  the  broken  arrows  will  have  probably  deceived  him 
thoroughly  as  to  the  time  for  the  rising.  He  may  be  there,  but 
it  is  just  as  well  to  see." 

The  two  went  forth  together.  Twenty  minutes  sufficed  for  the 
examination.  But  the  boy  was  not  in  his  cabin.  This  was  con 
ceived  to  be,  in  some  degree,  a  confirmation  of  our  rover's  sus 
picions.  But  it  did  injustice  to  the  boy.  He,  poor  fellow,  was  at 
that  moment  buried  in  the  deepest  slumbers  of  an  exhausted  frame, 
scarcely  a  hundred  yards  from  the  spot  where  Ligon  and  the  rest 
of  the  marines  and  sailors  were  crouching  out  of  sight,  in  closest 
harborage.  Iswattee  had  been  pursuing  his  regimen  for  more 

24* 


50 2  THE    CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 

tlian  a  week  ;  liencc  the  appearance  of  illness  which  had  so  im 
pressed  the  cassique  and  Grace  Masterton.  His  bod}7"  had  be 
come  enfeebled  by  potent  draughts  of  his  bitter-root  decoctions ; 
while  his  mind,  as  he  slept,  was  disordered  by  wildest  dreams, 
the  result  of  his  equally  potent  narcotic  beverages,  through  which 
he  expected  to  obtain  his  revelations  from  the  Great  Manneyto,  or 
Master  of  Life.  Alas,  for  the  poor,  simple  savage  !  —  shrinking 
from  the  cruel  duty  imposed  upon  him,  from  which  the  red  boy 
was  seldom  known  to  shrink  —  stubborn,  usually,  as  the  Spartan  ; 
and  recoiling  with  horror  from  those  sanguinary  deeds  which  his 
imagination  had  so  vividly  painted  to  his  thoughts ;  too  gentle  a 
nature  for  the  destiny  before  him ;  assigned  by  the  Fates  to  an 
ordeal  for  which  they  had  failed  to  endow  him  with  the  requisite 
characteristics  of  a  wild  and  savage  blood,  and  a  cold,  obdurate, 
inflexible  heart  and  will ! 

Will  the  Great  Spirit  help  him  in  this  ordeal  ?  Will  he  de 
scend  with  shadowy  wings  upon  his  slumbers,  and  so  clear  his 
vision  and  arm  his  will  as  to  enable  him  to  find  a  way  out  of  the 
deadly  labyrinth  —  the  snaky  folds  of  his  destiny?  His  trial  is 
near  at  hand !  Let  us  leave  him  where  he  sleeps,  and  follow 
those  only  who  are  all  awake  to  the  exigencies  of  the  time. 

The  cassique,  now  made  fully  conscious  of  the  perils  of  his  sit 
uation,  roused  up  all  his  energies,  which,  once  afoot,  were  as  stir 
ring  and  pressing  as  those  of  his  brother,  whom  he  so  greatly 
resembled. 

"  My  poor  Olive  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  and  at  such  a  moment !  O 
Harry,  she  is  dying !  Your  Olive  !  my  Olive  !  Perchance  this 
very  night  —  this  very  night ! — " 

He  could  say  no  more,  but  fell  into  his  brother's  outstretched 
arms.  For  a  moment  the  two  clung  together  —  a  life  of  meaning 
in  the  deep  silence  which  followed.  Neither  had  speech.  Nei 
ther  saw  the  other's  tears,  or  heard  the  suppressed  sobbing.  He 
only  felt  his  own ;  and  the  deep  throes  of  his  heart  stifled  all 
hearing. 

For  a  moment!  And  then  the  cassique  drew  himself  up,  and 
out  of  our  rover's  embrace,  and  said  : — 

"  We  must  be  men !  But,  0  Harry,  it  is  terrible  to  think  that, 
in  the  midst  of  strife,  and  storm,  and  bloodshed,  her  pure,  sweet 
spirit  shall  go  out ! — " 


VOICES    OF   THE    NfGHT.  563 

"  Edward,  enough  !  Let  me  close  these  shut'.ers.  Go  you  to 
Olive's  —  to  your  wife's  chamber  —  and  close  in  every  shutter. 
Gently  !  No  noise !  We  must,  so  far  as  we  can,  spare  her  every 
sound  of  strife  without.  Let  this  he  your  present  task.  Take  no 
further  care  or  trouble  touching  this  danger.  I  have  prepared  — 
will  prepare  —  for  it  all.  See  to  her;  cling  to  her  side  ;  let  her 
not  lose  you"  —  a  long  pause  —  "lose  you,  at  the  last!" 

"  Nor  you  !  0  Harry,  it  is  your  right,  even  more  than  mine  !" 
"  I  will  be  here,  Edward ;  and,  if  it  may  be  so,  will  be  there 
also.  We  know  not  yet  at  what  moment  we  may  be  summoned 
by  the  cry>  of  battle  without  —  the  cry  of  death  within  !  Go,  now, 
and  see  to  all  the  fastenings :  close  all  the  windows  in  Olive's 
chamber." 

The  cassique  again  clasped  his  brother  in  his  arms. 
"  Alas,  my  brother,  that  we  should  meet  thus !" 
"  As  God  wills  !     And  we  are  stronger  for  this  meeting,  even 
thus !     The  terrors  of  the  grave,  which  surround  us,  are  only 
so   many   clues    to   a   wondrous   mystery,   to  which  heart,  and 
soul,  and  mind,  must  equally  rise,  if  we  would  assert  a  proper 
manhood.     Go,  now,  my  brother,  and  do  as  I  have  toldtyou. 
If  we  are  to  be  assailed  to-night,  the  moment  of  trial  can  not  be 
far  off." 

The  cassique  was  about  to  go ;  but  was  arrested,  even  at  the 
door,  by  a  third  party  coming  upon  the  scene.  Let  us,  to  explain 
the  interruption,  anticipate  his  visit  to  his  wife's  chamber.  We 
a^e  summoned  thither. 

It  will  be  remembered  that,  when  the  cassique  withdrew  from 
the  chamber,  he  had  left  the  little  Spanish  wife  of  our  rover  in 
charge  of  Olive.  She  was  joined,  in  a  while  after,  by  the  Hon 
orable  Mrs.  Masterton.  This  maternal  lady  would  have  dismissed 
Zulieme  to  her  chamber.  But  the  latter  would  not  consent ;  pro 
fessed  her  anxiety  to  remain,  and  declared  that  she  had  had  sleep 
enough  for  the  night.  The  mother  was  talkative,  and,  after  a 
gpace,  Olive  became  restive.  Mrs.  Masterton  approached  her 
bed:— 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  child  ?" 
"  There  are  footsteps  —  voices  :  some  one  comes  !" 
"No,  my  beloved,  there  is  nobody.     The  house  is  perfectly 
still." 


564  THE    CASSJQUE    OK    KIAWAH. 

The  mother  smiled  —  shook  her  head  —  and  tried  to  soothe 
her. 

"  I  can  hear,  mother.  There  are  voices.  Where  is  my  hus 
band—Sir  Edward?" 

"  He  has  gone  into  the  parlor,  dear  senora,"  quoth  Zulieme. 

"  It  is  there  I  hear  the  steps  —  the  voices.'* 

"  Impossible,  my  child  ;  you  have  dreamed  it.  I  rather  think 
Sir  Edward  has  gone  to  lie  down." 

"I  have  dreamed  nothing.  I  see  everything.  Life  itself  is 
but  a  dream  with  me  now ;  but  it  is  such  a  dream  as  makes  me 
see  and  hear  more  than  ever.  It  is  as  I  tell  you,  mother :  there 
are  footsteps  —  voices." 

"  I  think  I  do  hear  voices,"  said  Zulieme. 

"  No  !"  sharply  rejoined  the  mother.  "  It  is  all  a  notion.  The 
house  is  perfectly  quiet." 

"Ah  !  quiet — quiet!  That  is  death  !  Death  is  a  great  quiet, 
mother.  But  I  know  that  there  are  men  moving  and  talking  in 
the  house.  Ah  !  —  lift  me  a  little.  Hark,  mother  !" — in  a  whis 
per  ;  and,  as  her  mother  bent  to  her,  she  said,  "  He  is  here !" 

"  He  !     Who,  my  child  ?" 

"  Harry  —  Harry  Berkeley  !" 

"My  dear  child,  I  tell  you,  you  are  only  dreaming.  It  is  im 
possible." 

"  And  I  tell  you,  mother,  that  I  know  he  is  here !  I  hear  his 
voice — " 

"  What !   when  we  can  hear  nothing  ?" 

"  I  hear  his  footstep  !" 

The  mother  smiled,  shook  her  head,  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

"  I  feel  his  presence,  mother !  He  is  here  !  Will  you  not  go 
and  see,  and  bring  him  to  me  ?" 

"  Bring  him,  my  love  ?" 

"  Ay,  bring  him  !" 

"  Impossible  !     Why,  my  child,  only  think  ! — " 

"  Think  ?  How  think  ?  Why  should  I  think  ?  Why  should 
you  not  bring  him  ?" 

"What!  after  all?— " 

"Yes;  after  all!  That  is  the  very  time  —  after  all !  There 
can  be  no  doubts  or  suspicions  now.  Do  you  still  think  of  such 
a  life  as  this,  that  I  am  leaving  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  no 


VOICES    OF    THE    NIGHT.  565 

more  one  of  you?  —  that  the  world  is  going  from  me?  —  that  life, 
society,  all  those  things  that  made  us  ever  so  sadly  think,  are  de 
parting?  I  beg  you,  mother,  bring  Harry  hither.  Bring  my 
husband  with  him.  They  are  there  together.  I  feel  it  —  almost 
see  it — hear  his  voice — know  his  step  !  Ah  !  why  will  you  deny 
me?" 

"  But,  my  child,  I  assure  you  that  there  is  no  stranger  in  the 
house." 

"  As  if  Harry  should  be  called  a  stranger !     But  he  is  here  !" 

"  Let  me  go  see,  senora,"  said  Zulieme  to  the  mother.  "  It  can 
do  no  harm." 

"  No,  no  !  you  are  right,  my  dear  girl,"  murmured  the  sufferer ; 
"  it  can  do  no  harm.  Go  see  !  —  go  bring  him  !" 

*'  Well,  go  if  you  will !"  replied  the  mother,  a  little  too  impa 
tiently  for  such  a  scene  and  situation.  But  she  had  taken  a  sort 
of  dislike  to  Zulieme,  from  the  first  moment  of  her  coming,  and 
this  was  her  mode  of  expressing  it.  And  Zulieme  went. 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  hall,  at  the  moment  when  the  broth 
ers  .were  embracing,  as  if  the  better  to  share  their  sorrows.  The 
lights  had  been  placed  in  the  chimney,  when  Calvert  had  taken 
them  from  the  window.  At  the  opening  of  the  door,  the  brothers 
turned  their  faces  to  the  intruder ;  and,  even  as  he  turned,  the 
gleams  from  the  candles  were  thrown  full  upon  the  face  of  the 
rover.  His  air,  figure,  face,  were  unmistakeable  by  one  who  so 
well  knew  him  as  Zulieme ;  and,  forgetting  every  consideration 
but  the  one  vivid  memory  and  feeling,  she  sprang  upon  him  — 
with  no  power  of  self-restraint  —  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom, 
her  arms  almost  vainly  stretching  up  toward  his  neck,  and  cried 
aloud : — 

"  O  Harry !  you  great  brute  of  a  Harry,  you  are  come  for  me 
at  last  !" 

The  rover  was  as  much  confounded  as  the  cassique.  He  lifted 
her  in  his  arms,  till  her  lips  were  on  a  level  with  his  own,  and 
ghe  smothered  him  with  kisses.  The  cassique  recoiled  in  conster 
nation.  The  rover  said  — 

"Why,  Zulieme!  you  here,  child?" 

"  Didn't  you  know  it  ?     Haven't  you  come  for  me  ?" 

"  N — o !  not  exactly  !  But,  it's  just  as  well.  I  am  glad  to  find 
you  here.  It  saves  me  much  pain  and  peril." 


560  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"What's  just  as  well?"  she  demanded,  quickly. 

He  did  not  answer  her ;  but,  still  holding  the  little  woman  close 
ly  to  him,  with  much  more  apparent  tenderness  than  we  have  seen 
him  show  before,  he  said  to  his  brother : — 

"  Go,  Edward,  and  see  to  the  windows.  All  this  shall  be  ex 
plained  hereafter." 

The  cassique  disappeared,  leaving  the  parties,  but  only  for  a 
brief  space,  together.  When  he  reached  Olive's  chamber,  and 
heard  from  Mrs.  Masterton  what  a  wild  notion  his  wife  enter 
tained  of  the  presence  of  Harry  Berkeley  in  the  house,  he  was 
astounded.  He  could  readily  conceive  how  acute  might  the  senses 
become,  where  the  heart  was  deeply  concerned ;  but  that  the  soul 
should  be  so  quickened,  while  still  holding  possession  of  its  frai 
tenement  of  clay  —  should  so  quicken  the  sensibilities  —  was 
mystery  of  marvellous  significance.  As  he  paused  in  silence, 
suddenly  struck  with  the  wonder  of  the  thing,  Olive  said  to 
him: — 

"  Surely,  it  is  so,  Edward  —  Harry  is  here  ?" 

"  He  is,  Olive  !     Shall  I  bring  him  to  you,  my  love  ?" 

"  If  you  please.     He  has  come  in  time." 

"  He  belongs  to  us  both,  Olive  :  he  shall  come  to  you." 

"  It  will  kill  her,  Sir  Edward  !"  murmured  Mrs.  Masterton,  in 
tones  which,  as  she  thought,  were  inaudible  to  any  ears  but  his. 
To  her  terror,  Olive  said : — 

"  Have  you  anything  to  make  me  live,  mother?  —  Bring  Harry 
to  me,  Sir  Edward,  if  you  please." 

The  cassique  obeyed  her.  The  scene  had  occupied  but  a  few 
minutes,  and  he  returned  promptly  to  the  hall  where  he  had  left 
Harry  and  Zulieme.  A  few  words  sufficed  to  say  what  was  want 
ed,  and  our  rover  hastened  to  obey ;  the  little  wife  still  eagerly 
hanging  on  his  arm,  and  whispering : — 

"  I  see  it  all  now,  Harry.     This  lady  was  your  Olive  !" 

"  Hush  !  child  —  hush !"  he  whispered  in  reply,  pressing  her 
hand,  and  passing  on,  while  the  cassique  led  the  way.  At  the 
entrance  of  the  chamber,  Zulieme,  with  a  certain  vague  instinct 
of  propriety,  held  back ;  but,  this  time,  our  rover  detained  her 
hand,  as  if  to  say,  "  You  shall  see  and  hear  all."  Then  he  en 
tered,  closely  following  the  cassique,  who  went  at  once  to  the  bed 
side.  So  did  Harry  ;  and,  without  a  word,  he  knelt  down  beside 


VOICES   OF   THE    NIGHT.  567 

the  dying  woman.  Her  eyes  were  closed  —  she  did  not  look  at 
him  —  but  she  knew  he  was  there;  and  stretched  out  her  thin 
fingers,  which  he  took  within  his  grasp,  and  carried  to  his  lips. 
Then  she  said  : — 

"  You  are  here,  Harry  !     I  am  glad  !     I  shall  be  happy  now  ! 

—  My  husband,  Sir  Edward — " 

The  cassique  leaned  over  her ;  and,  possessing  herself  of  one 
of  his  hands,  she  laid  it  in  that  of  Harry. 

"Am  I  right?"  she  continued.  "Brothers  —  always  brothers! 
Love  me  both  when  I  am  gone  !  In  that  world  to  which  I  hasten, 
I  .shall  love  you  both,  over  all  living  men  !  I  shall  watch  your 
loves !  You  have  been  very  dear  to  me  both.  Oh,  be  always 
dear  to  one  another,  in  remembrance  of  my  love  !" 

The  brothers  were  now  both  kneeling  beside  her.  Their  grief 
was  swallowed  up  in  silence.  The  mother,  however,  suddenly  fell 
into  a  passionate  sobbing,  which  once  more  aroused  the  dying 
woman : — 

"O  mother!"  she  exclaimed  —  "peace,  now!  God  is  over 
shadowing  us  with  his  mighty  presence.  If  you  could  see,  as  I 
see,  who  are  about  us,  you  would  grow  dumb  —  you  would  shut 
all  your  senses  !  Do  not  —  do  not !" 

The  cassique  tried  in  vain  to  pacify  the  matron ;  but,  finding 
words  unavailing,  he  led  her  from  the  room.  She  struggled  fee 
bly,  but  finally  submitted.  When  she  was  removed,  he  returned 
and  closed  the  door.  None  but  Harry,  himself,  and  Zulieme, 
were  now  in  the  chamber.  Zulieme  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Harry  remained  beside  Olive  —  close  by,  on  one  side 

—  her  hand  still  clasped  in  his.     The  cassique  knelt  opposite. 
Her  eyes  were  now  shut.     There  was  no  pressure  in  her  fingers ; 
but  her  breathing  was  audible,  though  faint.     By  this  only  did 
they  know  that  she  still  lived.     She  seemed  to  slumber  like  an 
infant.     Not  a  word  was  spoken  for  many  moments.     The  silence 
was  full  of  sacredness  and  awe.     Yes  !  they  all  felt  that  the  over 
shadowing  presence  of  a  mighty  Spirit  was  there,  sovereign  over 
pain,  death,  and  the  grave !     And  under  his  wings   they   were 
subdued  into  silence  ;  each  seeming  to  hold  his  breath,  as  if  wait 
ing  for  some  signal,  significant  of  that  approaching  Power  whoso 
potency  they  already  felt !     And,  even  as  Olive  seemed  breathing 
herself  gently  away,  as  the   zephyr   dies   along  the   empurpled 


568  THE  CASSIQUE  OF  KIAWAH. 

waves  of  a  retiring  sea ;  even  as  they  held  their  own  breathing 
suspended  with  a  hush,  waiting  upon  hers  —  there  was  a  signal  — 
a  fearful  one  in  that  hour,  and  under  such  influences  —  but  not 
that  for  which  only  they  then  looked  and  listened ! 

Wild  was  the  cry  which  suddenly  echoed  through  and  shook 
the  chamber!  It  was  the  war-whoop  of  the  painted  savage, 
howled  forth,  as  by  a  thousand  wolves,  raging  furiously  around 
the  dwelling. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    KIAWAH. 


569 


CHAPTER   LIV 

THE    BATTLE    OF    KIAWAH. 

"Ring  out  the  alarum  !  for  the  foe  is  on  us." 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  harboring-place  in  which  Calvert  had  posted  Ligon,  with 
his  remaining  body  of  marines,  had  been  chosen  with  singular 
circumspection ;  at  once  with  reference  to  concealment,  and  to  the 
maintenance  of  a  watch  upon  the  hollow  tree  in  which  the  sheaf 
of  arrows  had  been  hidden.  He  well  apprehended  that  the  first 
visit  of  the  old  chief,  Cussoboe,  would  be  made  to  the  tree,  to  as 
certain  if  his  commands  had  been  obeyed  by  his  son ;  and,  proba 
bly,  with  the  hope  to  meet  him  there,  bringing  the  keys  of  the 
barony  and  of  all  its  offices. 

Ligon,  an  old  Indian-fighter  as  well  as  scout,  lay  close,  grim  as 
death,  and  not  so  impatient  for  his  prey  as  to  peril  his  prospect 
by  any  premature  exhibitions.  He  had  distributed  his  men  along 
and  within  a  thick  piece  of  underwood  which  formed  a  boundary, 
as  it  were,  between  the  original  forests  and  the  opened  grounds 
of  the  barony.  He  could  there  behold  all  who  emerged  from  the 
former,  and  yet  obtain  sufficient  glimpses  of  the  latter.  His  peo 
ple  crouched  low,  or  lay  at  length,  in  a  line,  almost  within  touch 
of  each  other.  It  may  be  that  some  slept,  in  the  two  or  three 
hours  of  watch  and  weariness  which  they  were  compelled  to  en 
dure. 

But  Ligon  himself  never  closed  an  eye,  but  kept  scouting  in 
short  circuits,  as  the  panther  does  about  the  farmyard.  None  of 
his  own  men  knew  when  he  departed  or  when  he  returned,  so 
stealthy  was  his  footstep ;  but  in  these  circuits,  which  he  continu 
ally  enlarged,  he  came  upon  the  sleeping  boy,  Iswattee.  The 


THE    GASSJQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 

starlight,  feebly  penetrating  the  massed  boughs  overhead,  enabled 
him  to  discover  the  prostrate  boy  only  when  he  stood  beside  him  ; 
for  it  was  to  one  of  the  deepest  covers  of  the  thicket  that  the 
youth  had  gone  in  which  to  pursue  his  regimen.  Perhaps  Ligon 
would  have  failed  to  detect  him  when  he  did,  had  he  not  set  his 
foot  down  upon  a  small  pile  of  smouldering  ashes  which  were  still 
warm,  and  overturned  the  little  earthen  pot  in  which  Tswattee  had 
made  his  root-decoctions.  This  led  our  scout  to  a  close  scrutiny, 
and  conducted  him  to  the  Indian  boy,  who  was  wrapped  in  sleep, 
and  murmuring  in  some  fearful  dream. 

The  first  instinct  of  Ligon  was  to  brain  the  sleeper  with  his 
tomahawk ;  but  he  paused,  reflecting  that  this  stroke  might  lead 
to  a  premature  exposure  of  his  presence  and  his  party,  and  possi 
bly  defeat  the  purpose  for  which  his  ambush  had  been  set.  Be 
sides,  he  knew  not  how  many  more  sleepers  might  be  found  in 
the  same  dense  harborage.  A  stroke  which  should  merely  hurt 
—  one  cry  of  the  wounded  youth  —  would  awaken  all !  Our  scout, 
governed  by  these  considerations,  forebore  the  stroke,  and  con 
tented  himself  with  removing  the  hatchet,  knife,  bow  and  arrows, 
which  lay  beside  the  sleeper.  These  he  bore  away  with  him, 
moving  back  to  his  ambush  with  as  much  caution  as  before,  but 
with  more  decided  steps,  as  he  discovered  that  the  boy  was  sleep 
ing  uneasily,  had  shown  some  restlessness  while  he  was  with 
drawing  the  weapons,  and  would  probably  soon  awaken.  Our 
scout  regained  the  copse  in  which  his  men  were  crouching,  and, 
with  a  touch  of  the  hand  on  each  shoulder,  roused  them  to  prepa 
ration.  He  naturally  fancied  that  the  red  men  were  all  about  in 
the  forest  cover ;  and  waiting,  as  is  their  wont,  for  the  near  ap 
proach  of  dawning,  to  begin  the  assault.  As  the  morning  hour 
is  usually  that  when  the  deepest  sleep  falls  upon  men,  so  do  they 
train  themselves  to  waken  at  that  hour,  the  better  to  take  advan 
tage  of  their  enemies. 

It  might  have  been  three  quarters  of  an  hour  after  this  event, 
when  a  dry  branch  was  heard  to  break,  and  the  dry  leaves  to 
crinkle,  as  under  an  approaching  footstep.  Soon,  Ligon  beheld  a 
warrior,  fully  equipped,  Indian  fashion,  for  strife  and  massacre, 
emerging  from  the  shade  and  passing  over  a  brief  open  space  in 
the  woods,  in  the  direction  of  the  hollow  tree.  He  was  followed 
by  thiee  others,  who  came  out  severally  from  the  forest.  The 


THE    BATTLK    OF    KTAWAH. 

first  who  appeared  was  old  Cussoboe  himself;  the  others  were  all 
of  them  chiefs,  and  one  of  them  his  brother,  well  known  to  the 
whites  of  that  day  for  his  prowess.  This  was  Ocketee.  He  has 
left  his  name  to  a  swamp  and  river. 

The  old  chief  searched  the  tree,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
rage  and  disappointment.  He  had  grasped  the  remaining  arrows 
in  his  hand,  six  or  .seven  in  number,  and  held  them  up  to  his  com 
panions.  A  perfect  torrent  of  execrations,  in  the  dialect  of  his 
people,  burst  from  his  lips.  A  long  and  animated  discussion  fol 
lowed  between  the  party ;  but,  though  Ligon  knew  the  language, 
he  was  not  sufficiently  near  to  distinguish  the  words.  He  could 
only  h  jar  the  sounds  ;  and  these,  he  observed,  were  warm,  violent, 
and  very  savage.  The  old  chief  crushed  the  arrows  in  his  hands, 
and  dashed  them  to  his  feet.  Then,  as  if  the  conference  had 
reached  a  conclusion,  he  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  and  uttered 
a  deep,  wailing  cry,  like  that  of  some  sea-fowl,  in  unison  with  its 
own  melancholy,  and  its  wild  abode  of  foam,  and  storm,  and 
ocean. 

Such  a  cry,  at  once  deep  and  shrill  —  well  mistaken  for  that  of 
a  sea-bird  —  might  reach  the  barony,  and  the  ears  of  all  its  in 
mates,  yet  occasion  no  surprise  to  senses  not  familiar  with  the 
capacity  of  the  red  men  for  imitating  the  cries  of  beast  and  bird, 
and  their  habit  of  employing  these  as  signals  in  stratagem  and 
war.  Ligon  readily  concluded  that  the  cry  had  some  such  sig 
nification.  It  was  easy  for  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  men,  to 
have  rushed  out  upon  the  chiefs  and  butchered  them,  or  to  have 
shot  them  down  ;  but  he  knew  not  how  many  savages  were  har 
bored  in  the  woods,  and  was  well  aware  that  the  first  sound  of 
strife  would  bring  forth  all  their  myrmidons,  supposing  them  to 
be  at  hand.  He  itched  to  be  busy  with  them,  but  had  schooled 
his  passions  to  a  wonderful  patience  and  forbearance. 

The  cry  of  Cussoboe  brought  forth  his  warriors,  perhaps  two 
hundred  painted  savages  in  all,  and  one  group  dragged  along  with 
them  the  boy  Iswattee,  whom  they  had  stumbled  over,  as  Ligon 
had  done,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  after  he  had  left  him. 

Iswattee  came  forward  staggering,  feeble  with  his  regimen,  and 
perhaps  half  stupid  still  from  his  narcotics.  He  was  bewildered, 
but  approached  his  father,  who,  at  first,  seemed  not  to  know  him. 
Som°  one  said,  "  Iswattee !"  At  the  word,  Cussoboe  caught  up 


5<2  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

the  broken  arrows,  still  in  the  sheaf  of  rattlesnake-skin,  and  thrust 
them  in  the  very  face  of  the  boy ;  then,  ere  any  one  could  con 
ceive  his  purpose,  or  interpose,  he  raised  his  hand  suddenly  and 
smote  him  on  the  head  with  the  hammer  of  his  stone  hatchet, 
bringing  him  to  the  earth  at  a  blow.  He  was  about  to  repeat  the 
stroke,  when  Ocketee,  the  uncle  of  the  boy,  darted  between,  and 
defended  the  body.  Some  sharp  words  passexl  between  the  par 
ties,  and  there  was  every  chance  of  a  violent  quarrel,  for  old  Cus- 
soboe  raged  like  a  tiger;  but  several  of  the  other  chiefs  put  in, 
and  appeased  the  disputants.  Three  of  the  red  men  took  up  the 
senseless  boy,  and,  after  searching  him  —  as  Ligon  supposed,  for 
the  keys  of  the  barony  —  they  bore  him  away  from  his  father's 
sight,  and  hid  him  in  the  thickets,  where  one  of  them  remained 
with  him. 

A  hurried  consultation  then  followed  among  the  chiefs,  the  re 
sult  of  which  was  that  three  of  them,  old  Cussoboe  still  in  the 
lead,  emerged  from  the  forest,  taking  the  direction  of  the  woods 
and  grounds  about  the  barony.  Suffering  them  to  go  ahead  some 
hundred  yards,  the  main  body  of  the  red  men  advanced  also,  and 
planted  themselves  along  the  very  edge  of  the  open  grounds, 
gradually  spreading  out  on  each  hand;  so  that,  at  a  given  signal, 
they  might  contract  their  wings,  and  cover  every  point  of  the  set 
tlement. 

Watching  every  movement,  and  suffering  the  whole  force  of 
the  enemy  to  leave  the  forest,  Ligon  set  his  own  squad  in  motion, 
but  halted  them  as  soon  as  he  had  got  them  in  line  and  order, 
keeping  them  close  in  hand  and  still  in  cover.  He  then  stole  for 
ward  himself  sufficiently  far  to  ascertain  that  the  red  men  were 
still  in  the  wood,  just  on  its  edge,  and  perfectly  concealed  in  its 
shadows  from  the  settlement.  Subsequently,  when  they  advanced 
toward  the  houses,  as  they  did  at  the  signal  of  the  chief,  he  brought 
his  men  forward,  so  as  to  occupy  the  very  place  they  had  left, 
on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  the  background  of  shadow  giving  them 
ample  security  from  sight.  Here  he  examined  the  priming  of 
every  musket  and  pistol.  All  had  been  provided,  from  the  cas- 
sique's  armory,  with  guns.  Their  pistols  and  cutlasses  they  had 
brought  with  them  from  the  ship. 

"  And  now,"  said  Ligon,  with  a  low  chuckle,  "  ef  we  have  n't 
got  these  rascally  red-skins  in  a  tight  place,  then  I  never  seed  a 


THE   BATTLE   OF   KIAWAH.  673 

wolf  in  a  steel  trap.  Only  go  to  it,  fellows,  with  a  will,  and  you'll 
see  the  red  feathers  fly !" 

Old  Cussoboe,  with  his  two  companions,  proceeded  to  the  ex 
amination  of  the  several  houses  of  the  settlement.  They  stole, 
like  ghosts,  silent  as  the  grave,  from  tree  to  tree,  always  taking 
shrewd  care  to  secure  a  cover  when  they  could.  They  went 
round  the  armory,  which  was  to  them  a  special  object  of  attention. 
In  the  rear  of  it  they  had  a  long  consultation,  which  the  marines 
within  could  hear,  but  riot  comprehend.  They  tried  at  the  lock, 
but  it  was  fast.  There  was  also  some  heavy  weight,  some  bulky 
article,  against  the  door.  This  was  a  surprise  to  them.  It  ar 
gued  that  some  one  slept  within  ;  more  than  one  was  not  thought 
of.  There  were  holes  in  the  sides  of  the  building,  which  was 
pierced  for  musketry  ;  but  no  windows,  no  outlet  but  the  one  door. 
After  some  minutes  spent  in  consultation  here,  they  stole,  in  like 
cautious  manner,  to  the  d\velling-house,  and  that  of  the  workmen. 
The  carriage-house  and  stables  were  left  unexamined.  They 
seemed  to  know  the  grounds  well,  and  up  to  a  late  moment  had 
evidently  had  their  spies  upon  it.  They  found  all  the  buildings 
securely  fastened ;  that  is  to  say,  so  securely  as  to  require  some 
degree  of  violence  to  break  in.  But  they  also  found  all  silent  as 
death  or  sleep  could  make  them.  They  could  see  no  lights,  ex 
cept  in  one  chamber  of  the  main  dwelling,  and  this  gleamed  only 
through  a  crevice  in  the  shutter.  It  was  in  the  chamber  of  Olive  ; 
the  windows  had  been  quietly  fastened  by  the  cassique,  at  a  mo 
ment  when  Harry  Calvert  was  kneeling  by  Olive's  bedside,  after 
his  first  arrival. 

As  if  satisfied  with  what  they  had  seen,  the  old  chief,  Cussoboe, 
gave  a  signal  which  brought  up  his  men,  two  hundred  at  least, 
who  came  forward  into  the  open  grounds  as  cautiously,  one  by 
one  —  taking  the  trees  severally  for  cover,  the  fences  and  houses 
—  as  if  their  leaders  had  not  already  felt  the  way.  They  divided 
into  three  parties,  under  as  many  chiefs.  One  party  completely 
encircled  the  dwelling,  and  squatted  close  to  the  basement  around 
it,  waiting  the  word  ;  another  surrounded,  in  like  manner,  the  build 
ing  where  the  workmen  were  stationed ;  while  a  third,  old  Cusso 
boe  at  their  head,  placed  themselves  about  the  armory.  This 
ouilding  was  especially  their  object,  and  here  they  made  their 
first  demonstration.  There  was  a  small  party  that  squatted  be- 


574  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

side  the  line  of  unfinished  pickets,  which  formed  the  beginning  of 
the  covered  way  from  the  dwelling  to  the  armory ;  and  others, 
again,  individuals,  occupied  here  and  there  a  tree.  After  a  few 
words,  three  stalwart  Indians  advanced  from  Cussoboe's  division, 
and  with  their  hatchets  began  to  work,  as  quietly  as  possible, 
upon  the  fastenings  of  the  log-house.  They  had  scarcely  com 
menced,  however,  when  a  pistol  blazed  through  one  of  the  musket- 
holes,  tumbling  one  of  the  three  incontinently  over. 

Then  rose  the  whoop  from  the  whole  band,  as  if  by  a  common 
instinct  —  that  fearful  whoop  of  death,  which  had  so  suddenly 
startled  all  in  the  chamber  of  the  dying  Olive,  as  we  have  already 
seen.  She  had  not  so  completely  sunk  into  the  lethargy  which 
was  overspreading  all  her  faculties,  as  to  be  unconscious  of  those 
fearful  bowlings  which  had  sent  a  thrill  of  horror  through  all  the 
rest.  She  started  from  her  seeming  sleep  —  for  sleep  she  did  not: 
her  eyes  were  only  shut,  while  her  mind  enjoyed  a  sort  of  sweet, 
dreaming  reverie,  strangely  sweet  and  peaceful,  as  assured  that  it 
was  Harry  Berkeley's  hand  which  held  her  own.  And,  in  this 
consciousness  of  her  mind,  her  fingers  had  failed  to  note  that  the 
hand  had  been  withdrawn.  She  started,  and  cried  aloud : — 

"  Oh,  that  horrid  noise  !  Ah,  Harry,  Harry  !  where  are  you  ? 
Do  not  leave  me,  Harry  !  —  not  now  !  Hold  me  still,  Harry  !" 

He  was  already  at  the  door.  He  could  hear,  though  the  tones 
were  very  feeble.  One  sad  look  did  he  give  toward  the  couch  ; 
then,  dashing  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  he  hurried  away  to  the 
basement.  The  cassique  followed  him  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

"  It  is  no  time  for  tears,  Edward.  Yet,  oh  the  horrors  of  such 
a  conflict,  now  —  now!  That  such  a  blessed  angel  should  take 
her  flight  from  earth  in  such  a  tempest !" 

"  Happy  that  she  flies  from  all  tempests,  my  brother  !"  answered 
the  cassique,  solemnly. 

At  that  moment  Zulieme,  who  had  followed  both,  caught  our 
rover's  arm. 

"  0  Harry,  is  it  the  red  savages  ?" 

"  Yes,  child  !  But  get  you  back,  out  cf  danger,  and  keep  away 
from  the  windows.  Do  not  leave  Olive  now,  if  you  love  me." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  love  you,  Hany?"  whispered  the  littlo 
wife,  pulling  him  down  to  her,  while  she  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him. 


THK  BATTLE  OF  KIAWAH.  575 

"  To  be  sure,  child  !  Yes,  yes,  Zulieme ;  if  I  have  heart  for 
anything  now,  I  love  you." 

And,  as  if  suddenly  reflecting  that,  in  the  vicissitudes  of  thfc 
night,  he  might  be  cut  off,  he  was  even  tender  in  his  embrace  — 
more  tender  than  we  have  usually  seen  him ;  and  when  he  pui 
her  away,  it  was  with  a  kiss. 

"  Now,  back  with  you.  child,  and  cling  to  Olive  !  You  know 
all  now.  Go,  if  you  love  me,  and  cherish  her  with  love  to  the 
last;  and  catch  her  dying  words,  her  dying  breath,  and  bring 
them  to  me  hereafter." 

She  obeyed  him  without  pause  —  was  now  quite  satisfied  to 
obey.  Poor  little  urchin  !  love  —  even  her  brute-husband's  love 
—  was  fast  growing  to  be  a  necessity  with  her  heart ;  a  great  cra 
ving,  at  all  events. 

This  episode  occupied  but  a  few  seconds.  When  she  was  gone, 
the  cassique  said  : — 

"  I  know  none  of  your  plans,  Harry.  There  must  be  hundreds 
of  these  savages,  from  that  whoop !" 

"  There  are  !  My  arrangements  are  very  simple,  but,  I  think, 
sufficient.  We  have,  as  so  many  citadels,  your  house,  the  armory, 
the  house  of  your  laborers,  and  the  carriage-house  and  stables. 
These  are  all  made  tolerably  secure,  and  each  has  its  well-armed 
garrison  :  judge  if  the  Indians  can  penetrate  here,  without  suffering 
great  slaughter.  In  addition,  I  have  at  least  twenty  sailors  in  the 
woods,  well  armed  with  musket,  pistol,  and  cutlass.  The  red  men 
have  no  firearms,  unless  they  have  procured  them  by  some  dep 
redation.  They  are  not  yet  skilled  in  the  use  of  them.  Our 
various  posts  cover  all  the  space  between  the  several  houses. 
Our  force  in  the  woods  will  reserve  their  fire  to  receive  them, 
when  we  shall  have  beaten  them  off.  They  know  nothing  of  our 
defences,  and  it  must  be  rather  a  massacre  than  a  fight.  But  it  is 
better  that  it  is  so.  We  must  fill  them  with  sudden  terrors,  by  a 
terrible  punishment.  Sharp  punishment,  at  first,  will  shorten  the 
war.  And  now,  leave  it  to  me,  Edward.  I  would  beg  you  to  go 
and  keep  with  Olive,  but  that  I  know — 

"  How  can  you  propose  such  a  thing,  Harry  !" 

"  I  do  not  propose  it.  I  know  that  to  propose  it,  to  a  man  of 
character,  would  be  an  insult.  I  should  so  hold  it  myself.  What 
I  mean  is  this:  that  everything  has  been  so  thoroughly  arranged, 


576  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    KIAWAH. 

you  are  not  needed.  I,  in  fact,  am  scarcely  needed,  bu*.  I  .v!to- 
nalling." 

"  Hark !  they  are  hammering  at  the  entrance ;  and,  save  that 
single  shot,  your  men  do  not  give  fire." 

"  I  have  ordered  it  so.  I  wish  them  to  come  on  in  body. 
Your  door  is  well  bolted  and  barred  now ;  though,  when  I  first 
came,  it  was  so  simply  locked,  that  with  a  key  I  found  entrance. 
They  will  hardly  find  entrance  so  easy  now.  But  they  need  to 
be  watched.  Do  you  keep  and  watch  the  passage,  while  I  go 
below.  If  you  find  them  making  any  rapid  progress,  which  they 
could  only  do  with  a  two-pounder  or  a  battering-ram,  let  me  know. 
Watch  here,  Edward,  where  they  seem  to  be  at  work." 

Our  cruiser  went  below,  leaving  the  cassique  in  the  passage. 
The  latter  was  armed  —  had  caught  up  pistols  and  gun  ;  his  sword 
was  at  his  side.  He  was  eager  for  strife,  if  only  to  escape  from 
thought ;  the  silence  of  his  wife's  chamber  still  as  solemnly  calling 
to  him  as  did  the  clamors  of  the  savages  without.  He  was  impa 
tient  of  the  inaction  which  his  situation  forced  upon  him  ;  and,  for 
awhile  —  so  feeble  was  the  agency  employed  by  the  assailants  of 
the  door  —  they  made  no  seeming  progress.  The  door  was  a  pan 
elled  one,  but  heavy,  and  made  of  hard  pine.  The  Indians,  smi 
ting  with  their  stone  hatchets,  did  not  aim,  as  the  white  men  would 
do,  at  the  panels ;  but  struck  without  discrimination,  here  and 
;here,  and  as  frequently  upon  the  cross  as  the  panel.  The  door 
was  secured  by  a  bar  of  lightwood  as  well  as  by  the  lock.  But  a 
white  man,  with  axe  or  hatchet,  could  have  hewn  it  through  in 
twenty  minutes.  Our  cassique  listened  to  the  strokes  with  grow 
ing  impatience ;  and,  as  if  to  answer  his  impatience,  it  was  soon 
evident  that  new  assailants  had  come  to  the  work.  The  blows 
were  now  harder,  made  with  a  heavier  implement,  and  delivered 
with  more  judicious  aim  upon  a  single  panel  at  a  time.  Watch 
ing  this  progress,  he  at  length  hastened  below,  where  the  whole 
body  lay  perdu,  grimly  silent,  waiting  their  moment.  Harry  Cal- 
vert  met  him  at  the  door,  and  they  spoke  together  in  whisper. 
The  cassique  said  : — 

"  Their  hatchet-strokes  are  telling  above.  The  splinters  begin 
to  fly.  They  have  already  beaten  a  hole  through  one  of  the 
panels." 

"  Ah !  well,  I  am  rather  glad  of  that,  for  we  may  soon  get  a 


THE    BATTLE    OF    K1AWAH.  577 

chance  at  them,  which  we  have  not  here.  Situated  as  we  are,  we 
do  not  command  the  immediate  entrance,  only  the  space  five  or 
six  feet  from  it.  See  here  ! — " 

And  he  took  him  to  the  front,  and,  through  a  crevice,  just  wide 
enough  for  the  muzzle  of  a  blunderbuss,  he  showed  him  the  area, 
where  the  red  men  were  sufficiently  visible,  and  scattered,  skip 
ping  about  the  scene,  dotting  the  grounds  in  all  directions  between 
house  and  arsenal,  and  in  perpetual  motion. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  cruiser,  "  that  we  should  shoot  unprofitably 
while  they  are  thus  scattered.  We  have  too  few  shot  to  throw 
away  any.  We  must  make  each  bullet  tell.  I  wait  to  see  them 
massed  together.  They  wait  to  gain  some  advantage  —  to  effecC 
an  opening ;  and,  this  done,  you  may  look  to  see  them  rush,  it 
headlong  crowds,  to  the  point.  That  will  be  our  time.  It  is  foi 
this  we  wait.  Now,  I  shall  be  quite  willing  that  they  shall  beat 
in  the  panels.  It  will  have  two  good  results  :  we  shall  be  able  to 
crack  at  them  through  the  opening,  and  from  the  passage,  where 
for  the  present  we  can  do  nothing;  and  it  will  bring  on  their 
masses  tumultuously.  Once  let  us  have  them  massed  !  See  this 
blunderbuss  !  it  carries  a  pound  of  slugs.  I  have  another  like  it 
here.  Two  blunderbusses  and  ten  muskets,  all  crammed  with 
slugs,  will  be  apt  to  create  a  sensation  among  the  rascals." 

"  Good  heavens,  Harry,  it  will  be  a  massacre !" 

"  Exactly !  If  we  do  not  make  it  so,  we  are  lost !  They  can 
overwhelm  us  with  numbers  —  fire  the  house  above  our  heads  — 
utterly  destroy  us  —  unless  we  can  make  it  a  massacre  !  We  can 
not  afford  to  fight  with  them  man  for  man.  No  !  our  hope  is  to 
bring  them  on  in  masses,  assailing  every  one  of  our  garrisons  at 
the  same  time.  With  this  object,  I  have  specially  instructed  our 
several  leaders  to  reserve  their  fire,  or  so  to  fire  as  to  persuade 
the  wretches  that  we  have  but  a  man  or  two  in  each.  Now,  let 
them  gain  an  opening,  or  get  the  promise  of  one,  and  they  grow 
mad  with  excitement ;  and  you  will  see  in  what  swarms  the  red 
devils  will  rush  toward  us !  Then,  they  shall  have  it !" 

And  he  slapped  the  great  brass  barrel  of  the  blunderbuss  which 
he  carried,  with  an  exulting  and  determined  action. 

"  The  miserable  wretches !"  groaned  the  cassique. 

"  Hark  ye,  good  brother  of  mine,  none  of  your  philanthropy 
now !  Blood  is  the  law  of  battle !  We  must  show  tooth  and 

25 


578  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

nail.  We  must  bite  and  rend.  Get  you  above,  Edward,  and 
report  progress.  Or,  stay  here,  and  keep  my  place,  while  I  go 
see." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  stole  up-stairs,  advancing 
cautiously  along  the  passage,  until  he  sheltered  himself  in  the  left 
corner  near  the  door,  his  right  hand  free.  The  passage  was  ai- 
most  wholly  dark,  save  a  little  gleam  from  an  opening  which  the 
assailants  had  beaten  through  one  panel.  They  were  still  at 
work  upon  a  second,  which  was  yielding  in  splinters  under  their 
stone  hatchets.  Calvert  watched  his  moment,  and  lifted  his  blun 
derbuss  ;  but  he  instantly  put  it  down. 

"  Not  this !"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  I  must  not  waste  its 
contents  upon  a  man  or  two." 

He  pulled  from  his  belt  one  of  the  ship's  pistols,  thrust  it  sud 
denly  forward,  and  drew  the  trigger.     Down  went  the  stalwart 
savage  who  had  been  hammering  at  the  door,  with  a  brace  of  bul 
lets  through  his  head.     He  was  dead  ere  he  fell ! 

What  a  yell  followed  from  a  hundred  throats !  There  was  a 
rush  of  a  score  or  more,  some  of  whom  eagerly  seized  the  corpse 
and  bore  it  off,  while  others  darted  with  their  shoulders  against 
the  door,  as  if  to  break  in  by  the  mere  weight  of  their  bodies ; 
and  others,  again,  with  their  hatchets,  renewed  the  strokes  upon 
the  panels. 

To  two  of  these  sturdy  assailants  the  rest  yielded  the  labor. 
Only  two  could  work  profitably  at  the  spot.  But  the  crowd  had 
increased  without.  Enraged  by  the  loss  of  one  of  their  stoutest 
warriors,  they  were  yet  encouraged  by  the  fact  that  only  a  single 
shot  had  been  fired.  This  argued  the  presence  of  but  one  de 
fender,  and  perhaps  but  a  single  weapon.  They  had  cut  off  the 
connection  with  the  arsenal  and  the  house  of  the  workmen ;  and, 
though  seemingly  well  aware  that  the  garrison  of  the  latter  was 
strong,  they  counted  upon  the  helplessness  of  the  two  other  places. 
This  emboldened  them  in  their  attacks.  Calvert  congratulate 
himself  on  the  approach  of  the  moment  when  he  could  effect  th 
havoc  which  he  desired. 

"  Thick  grass,"  he  said,  as  he  again  went  below  —  using  the 
very  language  of  the  Hun  against  Rome  —  "thick  grass  Is  easiei 
cut  than  thin." 

He  said  to  the  cassique,  as  he  got  below : — 


THE    BATTLE    OP    KIAWAH.  579 

"  Now,  Edward,  get  to  your  post  again  !  Keep  in  cover,  and 
use  your  pistols  only,  and  only  when  you  can  make  your  mark. 
I  have  had  a  chance,  and  have  used  it.  These  red  rascals  will 
be  apt  to  come  on  now.  They  are  thickening ;  they  are  getting 
feverish  and  impatient.  Just  so  soon  as  they  get  thoroughly  en 
raged,  shall  we  have  them  on  us  ;  and  then  !  —  But  go  !  Keep 
in  cover,  for  these  fellows  will  deliver  their  arrows  through  a  key 
hole." 

The  cassique  promptly  obeyed.  Though  quite  as  brav^,  as  his 
brother,  he  yet,  with  all  others,  tacitly  felt  and  acknowledged  that 
superiority  of  resource,  that  authority  in  command,  which,  in  the 
case  of  the  latter,  was  the  fruit  of  a  long  experience  in  strife. 
Calvert  had  a  motive  for  hurrying  the  cassique  back  to  the  pas 
sage,  the  entrance  to  which  he  saw  would,  for  some  while  yet, 
baffle  the  assailants.  But  he  also  foresaw  that  the  red  men  could 
not  much  longer  curb  their  impatience,  and  that  they  would  al 
most  unconsciously  accumulate  about  the  several  points  of  attack, 
in  numbers,  irrespective  of  the  commands  of  their  leaders.  They 
were  hammering  at  the  door  of  the  arsenal,  even  as  at  that  of  the 
mansion.  They  had  simply  been  stung  and  irritated  by  the  sin 
gle  shot  from  each,  which  had  taken  down  its  victim.  Calvert 
felt  sure  that  he  would  soon  enjoy  his  desired  opportunity,  in  de 
livering  all  his  fire  upon  their  masses. 

"  Two  blunderbusses,"  he  counted  again  and  again  to  himself — 
"  two  blunderbusses  and  ten  muskets  !"  He  did  not  desire  his 
brother  to  be  present  at  the  discharge.  He  respected  the  error 
(as  he  held  it)  of  philanthropic  tenderness  for  the  red  men  which 
the  cassique  entertained.  He  whispered  all  around  among  his 
men  : — 

"  They  will  soon  make  a  rush  !  Wait  my  orders,  and  fire  low  ! 
You  are  on  a  line  with  them  ;  your  muzzles  range  with  your 
hips,  and  will  cover  their  bodies.  That  will  do.  Shoot  exactly 
level,  and  just  where  the  crowd  is  thickest.  Blunderbuss" — to 
the  fellow  who  carried  this  second  formidable  weapon  — "  fire  last, 
and  as  they  scatter !" 

He  had  hardly  spoken,  when  the  rush  was  made,  at  once  upon 
dwelling-house  and  armory.  The  crowd  pressed  the  persons  be 
fore  them,  mounted  the  steps  of  the  dwelling  to  the  door,  and  the 
rear  still  kept  thrusting  on  the  front.  There  was  a  great  shouting 


580  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

— the  war-whoop  —  a  flight  of  arrows  at  every  windcw,  and  tom 
ahawks  were  hurled  against  the  shutters,  in  their  rage.  Calvert 
watched  every  movement  impatiently.  His  moment  came  at 
last! 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  let  them  feel  you  !     Give  it  them  !" 

And,  as  he  spoke,  a  burst  of  fire  followed,  which  was  echoed 
seemingly  from  the  several  garrisons. 

It  was  no  echo !  Each  of  these  places  had  been  assailed,  in 
the  same  manner,  at  the  same  moment ;  and  each  had  poured 
forth  its  treasured  volley  among  the  swarming  assailants,  with 
like  terrible  effect.  It  was  the  first  notification  that  the  savages 
had  of  any  formidable  force  in  preparation  for  them.  They  were 
confounded.  For  a  moment  all  was  confusion  and  consternation. 
One  universal  groan  went  up ;  cries  of  pain ;  shrieks  of  terror 
while,  in  front  of  each  of  the  garrisoned  places,  lay  one  or  more 
piles  of  slain  and  wounded :  the  slain,  prostrate  on  face  or  back ; 
the  wounded,  writhing  to  extricate  their  limbs  from  incumbent 
bodies,  and  draw  themselves,  if  possible,  out  of  the  melee.  Ocke- 
tee,  the  chief,  had  fallen,  slain  outright.  Cussoboe,  however,  was 
unhurt ;  and  he  came  on  again,  raging  like  a  tiger,  and  striving  to 
bring  up  his  warriors  a  second  time  to  the  conflict. 

But  this  was  no  easy  matter.  The  red  men  quickly  feel  their 
losses.  They  count  a  single  warrior  slain,  as  a  defeat.  They 
stood  appalled.  They  now  felt  that  the  barony  had  been  pre 
pared  against  them,  and  with  such  a  force  as  they  hardly  believed 
to  be  anywhere  embodied  in  the  colony.  But,  as  the  cries  of  the 
sufferers  reached  their  ears ;  as  the  wounded  dragged  themselves 
out  of  the  scene,  and  became  known  to  them ;  as  they  counted 
and  missed  the  persons  slain  —  they  grew  furious;  smote  their 
enemies  in  the  air ;  howled  to  their  gods  in  imprecation ;  prac 
tised  a  thousand  contortions ;  and  strove  to  work  themselves  up  to 
a  renewal  of  their  frenzy,  and  a  repetition  of  the  attack. 

Suddenly,  a  wild  woman  came  among  them  from  the  rear,  an 
howling  with  the  fury  of  a  demon.     She  had  followed  or  accoin 
panied  the  party,  and  her  son  was  among  the  slain ;  and,  with 
dismal  shrieks  and  imprecations   $he  rushed  among  the  combat 
ants,  exhorting  them  to  havoc  ana  revenge.     She  was  powerfully 
seconded  by  one  of  their  fawas,  or  priests  —  a  conjuror,  a  magi 
cian  —  who.  gashing  himself  with  a  huge  ocean-shell,  and  drawing 


THE    BATTLE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  wofullest  sounds  from  a  great  conch,  invoked  upon  their  heads 
the  terrors  of  all  their  savage  gods  if  they  did  not  wreak  vengeance 
on  their  white  enemies. 

The  appearance  of  this  lawa  was  frightful  in  the  extreme.  He 
was  of  immense  size  and  stature,  nearly  seven  feet  in  height,  mus 
cular  and  well  limbed,  but  of  little  flesh,  and  he  wore  a  head 
dress  of  buffalo-horns  in  a  fillet  of  feathers.  His  age  was  greater 
than  that  of  any  of  his  people,  yet  not  one  exhibited  such  won 
derful  agility,  was  so  lithe,  rapid,  and  powerful  of  limb  and  move 
ment.  His  contortions,  savagely  frantic  and  fantastic,  as  he  threw 
his  hands  up  in  air,  and  whirled  through  the  masses,  gashing  his 
breast  till  the  blood  issued  from  every  part  of  it,  struck  awe  and 
terror  even  into  the  souls  of  those  who  had  been  wont  to  behold 
his  previous  displays,  and  who  had  long  been  familiar  with  such 
savage  rites.  With  the  woman  as  a  Fury,  such  as  haunted  the 
footsteps  of  Orestes,  and  the  lawa  as  a  terrible  necromancer,  call 
ing  up  the  dead  and  dismal  inhabitants  of  the  infernal  abodes,  we 
may  not  wonder  that  a  sort  of  madness  seized  upon  the  warriors 
as  they  heard  their  invocations ;  and  they  rushed  headlong,  as  it 
were,  upon  Fate ! 

But  what  could  their  stone  hatchets,  macanas,  or  war-clubs, 
avail  against  the  defences  of  the  white  man  ?  Again  did  the  fiery 
vengeance,  from  mansion-house  and  arsenal,  hurtle  terribly  through 
their  ranks,  rending,  maiming,  and  destroying !  The  savage  wo 
man,  rushing  desperately  to  the  front,  as  the  warriors  came  on, 
was  among  the  first  to  perish ;  falling,  with  one  wild  shriek,  upon 
her  face,  while  the  torrent  of  warriors,  passing  over  her  body, 
trampled  out  what  little  life  remained  in  her. 

"  It  is  a  horrid  massacre,  Harry  !"  said  the  cassique,  as  it  seemed 
reproachfully. 

"  Can  we  escape  it,  brother  mine  ?" 

u  No  !  I  see  no  way.     Nevertheless,  it  is  horrible  1" 

"  Very !  But  it  is  their  bl^od  or  ours  !  Give  it  them  again 
men !  Now — rake  the  line  of  pickets,  where  you  see  them  hud 
dling  together!  One  more  round,  and  we  shall  disperse  the 
wolves !" 

And  it  blazed  —  that  fiery  tempest — blazed,  charged  with  scores 
of  smiting  bolts,  from  gun,  and  blunderbuss,  and  pistol,  that  swept 
through  the  line  of  crouching  savages,  sending  those  who  wen1 


582  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

not  stricken  down,  scattered  and  screaming  over  the  area  !  An 
other  broadside  from  the  arsenal ;  a  third  from  the  fortress  of  the 
workmen  ;  and  the  affair  seemed  to  be  at  end.  All  was  disorder 
and  panic  among  the  savages. 

Then  it  was  that  Cussoboe,  that  fierce  old  chief,  who  had  hith 
erto  escaped  every  shot,  though  as  much  exposed  as  the  meanest 
of  his  followers,  came  rushing  among  them,  perilling  his  person 
everywhere,  reckless  of  danger,  and  even  smiting  down  the  fugi 
tives  with  his  stone  hatchet  as  sternly  as  he  had  smitten  down  his 
son  !  In  his  own  wild  gutturals,  he  cried  to  his  people : — 

"  Ha !  do  you  fear  the  white  man  ?  Do  not  be  afraid.  Be 
strong !  be  strong !  Kill !  kill !  Let  us  drink  the  blood  of  the 
pale-faces  ;  let  us  tear  off  the  scalps  from  their  skulls  !  Kill !  kill !" 

But  his  appeal  helped  them  little  —  failed  to  restore  order;  and 
they  were  still  scattered  and  without  purpose,  until  the  savage 
conjuror,  the  great  lawa  of  the  tribe,  reappeared  upon  the  scene, 
howling  and  practising  those  grotesque,  almost  demonic  contor 
tions,  which  usually  excited  them  to  madness.  Armed,  now,  with 
an  enormous  macana,  or  war-club  —  a  huge  mace,  five  feet  long, 
of  the  hardest  wood,  into  the  sides  of  which  were  let,  nearly  its 
whole  length,  double  rows  of  sharp  flint-stones,  like  arrow-heads, 
but  thrice  as  large  and  quite  as  keen  —  he  led  them  himself 
against  the  dwelling-house,  from  which  so  many  fearful  stream! 
of  fire  had  issued,  and,  darting  against  the  door,  smote  it  with 
thundering  effect  for  entrance. 

"  We  must  get  rid  of  that  conjuror,"  quoth  Calvert  to  his  men. 
"  Pick  him  out !  give  him  half  a  dozen  of  your  muskets  at  once  !" 

The  fire  was  delivered ;  but  the  conjuror  seemed  to  bear  a 
charmed  life !  He  stood  unmoved,  tall  as  a  tower,  among  the 
crowd,  smiting  still  as  fearlessly  as  ever ;  and  ever  and  anon  cry 
ing  out  to  the  band  to  avenge  their  gods  and  people.  At  that 
moment,  there  rose  a  shout  among  the  savages,  as  if  stimulated 
by  some  new  cause  of  hope ;  and  Calvert  saw  with  anxiety  a  run 
ner  approaching  from  the  rear,  who  carried  aloft  a  ball  of  blazing 
tow,  coated  in  the  gum-turpentine,  fastened  to  the  end  of  a 
epear,  and  burning  furiously ;  while  another  followed  him,  with  a 
bundle  of  arrows  similarly  dressed  with  gum  and  tow,  not  yet 
lighted,  but  ready  for  use ! 

Our  cruiser  at  once  understood  what  these  preparations  meant 


THE   BATTLE   OF   KIAWAH.  583 

"  See  that  every  gun  and  pistol  be  charged,"  he  said  to  his  men, 
"  and  be  prepared  to  follow  me  !" 

Then,  taking  off  hfs  hunting-shirt,  he  made  one  of  the  sailors 
wrap  it  tightly,  in  several  folds,  about  his  left  arm.  This  done, 
he  grasped  a  heavy  tomahawk,  and,  bidding  all  his  men  follow, 
ascended  from  the  basement  to  the  passage-way.  Here  he  met 
Ihe  cassique,  to  whom  he  said : — 

"We  have  a  new  danger  to  contend  with,  and  the  worst  yet! 
The  rascals  are  about  to  assail  the  house  with  burning  arrows ! 
We  must  end  this  matter  as  soon  as  possible,  and  by  a  desperate 
effort,  or  we  are  lost !" 

"  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

"  Make  a  sally.  We  must  now  make  these  red  rascals  feel  us, 
hand  to  hand !  We  might  destroy  many  of  them,  shooting  from 
our  defences,  yet  not  prevent  others  from  sending  their  flaming 
arrows  to  every  roof  in  the  settlement.  There  is  but  one  way  to 
prevent  that.  This  conjuror,  who  seems  to  defy  our  bullets,  must 
be  met.  If  we  can  slay  him,  we  shall  probably  disperse  the  rest. 
At  all  events,  we  can  only  disperse  them  by  a  concerted  charge." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Harry  !" 

"  You  shall  not !  Who  will  defend  the  house,  close  the  door, 
make  good  the  entrance,  if  you  leave  it  ?  No !  you  must  stay, 
and  keep  the  garrison.  Remember  Olive  !  . . . .  When  I  have  pal- 
lied  out  with  these  men,  secure  the  door  after  us,  as  before.  Then 
use  your  judgment  for  the  defence !  And  —  God  be  with  you, 
my  brother !" 

They  embraced.  It  might  be  a  final  parting.  The  cassique 
chafed;  but  there  was  no  remedy.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
leave  the  dwelling.  He  shed  bitter  tears  at  the  necessity.  He, 
too,  was  ready  for  death. 

"  Where  is  your  horn  ?"  said  Calvert  to  one  of  his  men.  He 
produced  it  from  under  his  arm. 

"The  moment  we  sally  forth,"  continued  he  to  the  fellow,  "do 
you  sound  it  thrice,  with  all  your  wind !  Now  —  be  ready  to 
second  me !  I  will  grapple  with  the  conjuror.  Do  your  work 
among  the  masses.  When  you  have  delivered  your  fire,  rush  on 
them  with  your  cutlasses." 

The  three  bugle-blasts  were  a  signal,  agreed  upon  before,  an 
nouncing  a  common  sally  from  all  the  garrisons.  In  a  moment, 


584  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

and  while  the  lawa  was  still  thundering  at  the  door  with  his  ma- 
cana,  the  bar  was  quietly  removed,  the  bolt  shot  back,  and  the 
door  thrown  open  —  the  lawa  staggering  forward,  only  to  receive 
a  heavy  blow  from  Calvert,  upon  the  shoulder,  which  drove  him 
out  again. 

Then  the  two  met  in  conflict,  at  the  very  entrance,  and  upon 
the  steps  of  the  house.  The  macana  swung  in  air,  a  terrific 
weapon,  but  difficult  to  manage.  Calvert  kept  his  enemy  at  close 
quarters,  the  better  to  prevent  its  stroke,  and  for  the  more  effect 
ual  use  of  the  short-handled  tomahawk  which  he  ^ore.  It  was  in 
vain  that  the  lawa  receded,  in  order  to  deliver  his  blows.  Our 
rover  clung  to  him  closely,  and  drove  him  before  him,  with  sharp, 
sudden  blows,  frequent  but  slight,  as  not  given  with  the  full  swing 
of  his  arm.  And  this  difficulty  was  one  not  easily  overcome  — 
since,  to  avoid  the  formidable  macana,  Calvert,  who  had  no  shield, 
but  the  coat  wrapped  about  his  left  arm,  was  required  to  employ 
his  agility  to  the  utmost,  either  by  getting  within  the  length  of  his 
enemy's  arm,  or  by  dodging  his  club  in  its  descent.  One  well- 
aimed  stroke  from  such  a  mace,  falling  upon  head  or  arm,  would 
slay  or  disable  him  for  ever.  It  was  a  battle  of  the  middle  ages. 
The  lawa  was  no  match  for  him  in  agility,  however  he  might  be 
in  strength.  Calvert  pressed  him  with  his  keenest  purpose,  re 
strained  simply  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  closest  watch,  and 
eluding  every  blow :  no  easy  task,  amid  the  din,  the  imperfect 
light,  and  the  sudden  glare  in  his  eyes  from  the  blazing  tow-balls, 
which  were  now  to  be  seen  waving  in  several  parts  of  the  area. 

But  the  single  combat  between  the  two  leaders,  though  grimly 
watched  by  many,  on  both  sides,  with  all  that  gloating  anxiety 
which  marks  the  spectators  of  any  great  gladiatorial  conflict,  was 
not  suffered  to  keep  the  rest  idle.  So  far,  it  had  been  the  work 
of  a  few  seconds  only  —  the  two  rushing  into  conflict  from  the 
moment  when  Calvert  had  emerged  from  the  dwelling.  But,  so 
soon  as  his  ten  musketeers  could  make  their  way  out,  and  spread 
themselves  on  either  side  of  their  chief,  they  delivered  their  fire, 
full  in  the  thick  of  the  excited  crowd  !  The  two  blunderbusses 
roared  and  emptied  their  slugs  ;  the  muskets,  huge  enough,  in  that 
day,  of  themselves,  had  also  formidable  masses  of  leaden  mischiefs 
to  scatter  abroad ;  and  they  did  so,  with  most  mischievous  accu 
racy  of  aim  !  Terrible  were  the  shrieks  and  groans  that  fol 


THE   BATTLE   OF   KIAWAH.  585 

lowed ;  and  then,  even  as  they  had  been  ordered,  the  sailors  drew 
their  cutlasses,  and  rushed  among  the  bewildered  masses,  hewing 
right  and  left  with  their  sharp  weapons  and  powerful  arms ! 

But  ere  this  movement  was  made,  and  just  so  soon  as  their  vol 
ley  was  delivered,  the  bugler  thrice  sounded  his  charge,  the  spirit- 
stirring  notes  imparting  a  new  life  to  the  scene  of  death  and  mas 
sacre. 

At  that  signal,  for  which  the  other  garrisons  had  been  impa 
tiently  waiting,  volley  after  volley  was  poured  forth  from  each ; 
the  combatants  following  up  the  effect  of  a  most  murderous  dis 
charge,  with  their  cutlasses,  even  as  Calvert's  party  had  done. 

The  red  men  who  still  kept  their  feet,  and  the  field,  found 
thejnselves  assailed,  on  all  sides,  by  a  force  that  seemed  to  spring 
out  of  the  earth.  A  wide-spread  consternation  seized  upon  their 
host.  Old  Cussoboe  raged  in  vain ;  and,  even  while  delivering 
his  war-cry,  was  hewn,  to  his  very  teeth,  by  the  cutlass  of  a  com 
mon  sailor ! 

It  was  a  curious  illustration  of  that  chivalrous  instinct  which 
characterizes  all  truly  brave  people,  that  no  one,  of  either  side, 
sought  to  meddle  in  the  fight  between  Calvert  and  the  lawa.  It 
was  seemingly  a  tacit  understanding  that  the  two  champions 
should  have  fair  play.  No  single  stroke  or  shot  was  aimed  at 
either.  Their  conflict  constituted  the  closing  scene  of  the  contest. 
All  was  fairly  over,  in  the  rest  of  the  field,  ere  it  closed  with 
them. 

Never  did  Indian  warrior  or  Magian  more  bravely  or  fiercely, 
or  with  greater  prowess,  wield  weapon  for  his  gods  or  country. 
His  tall  form  was  pre-eminent,  even  above  the  height  of  Calvert, 
which  was  considered  great  among  the  whites ;  and  his  mighty 
macana  was  whirled  about  in  air,  the  whizzing  sound  of  its  mo 
tion  being  heard  for  thirty  feet  or  more  !  Its  every  descent  made 
the  heart  shrink  and  shudder  —  expecting  to  hear  it  crashing,  the 
next  moment,  among  the  bones  of  the  head  which  it  threatened ! 
But,  hitherto,  with  the  exception  of  two  slight  injuries,  where  the 
club  had  grazed  his  bandaged  arm,  Calvert  had  escaped  unwound- 
ed ;  and  he  had  succeeded,  thrice,  in  giving  more  decided  hurts 
to  his  enemy.  The  lawa  was  evidently  growing  feeble.  His 
strokes  were  less  frequent.  He  raised  his  macana  with  more 
effort  and  more  slowly.  He  was  staggered  —  twice  by  the  stroke* 

25* 


586  THE   CASSIQUE   OP   KIAWAH. 

of  the  tomahawk ;  and  once,  from  no  apparent  cause.  But  he 
made  a  final  and  powerful  effort.  He  felt  that  it  was  probably 
the  last  he  could  make  ;  and,  with  a  wild  cry,  uttering  certain  gut 
tural  words  in  his  own  language  —  doubtless  addressed  to  his  false 
gods  —  he  whirled  the  macana  about  his  head,  and  it  sung  fear 
fully  in  the  air  as  it  descended ! 

It  required  all   Calvert's  dexterity  to  elude  the  blow,  which 
grazed  him  narrowly,  smiting  the  cap  from  his  head ! 

The  force  thrown  into  the  stroke,  bore  the  lawa  completely 
about;  while  the  heavy  end  of  his  mace  sank  in  the  ground. 
Before  he  could  recover  himself,  lift  his  weapon,  or  again  meet 
the  eye  of  his  enemy,  the  tomahawk  had  descended  once,  twice  — 
the  first  blow  stunningly,  the  last  fatally ;  the  heavy  steel  crunch 
ing  deeply  into  the  brain !  The  conjuror  sank  forward,  with  a 
single  yell,  which  found  many  a  fearful  echo  among  his  people. 
Down  he  went,  like  a  great  tower,  and  in  his  fall  the  conflict 
ceased.  The  red  warriors  had  no  leader  left.  Subsequently  it 
was  found  that  he  had  three  musket-balls  in  his  body.  Yet  hj 
had  not  faltered  once  ! 

All  now  was  flight  and  confusion.  Two  or  three  flights  o/ 
fiery  arrows  had  been  discharged  at  the  roof  of  the  mansion 
house,  but  with  such  haste  and  excitement,  that  they  went  over  ill 
in  every  instance.  The  red  men  were  not  suffered  time  to  repeat 
the  attempt.  The  sally  of  the  several  garrisons  was  made  at  the 
happy  moment ;  and  we  have  seen  the  effect.  The  tow-balls,  all 
on  fire,  were  left  blazing  on  the  ground,  and,  by  their  ghastly 
glare,  served  to  light  up  the  horrors  of  the  closing  scene.  Old 
Cussoboe,  as  we  have  said,  was  killed  by  a  common  sailor.  When 
told  whom  he  had  slain,  he  was  so  proud  of  the  achievement,  that 
he  cut  off  the  old  chief's  head  as  a  trophy,  not  having  any  ade 
quate  experience  in  taking  scalps.  Ligon,  afterward,  bought  the 
trophy  from  him  for  a  bottle  of  Jamaica,  and  performed  the  op 
eration  secundum  artem.  But  this  aside. 

All  was  not  yet  over  with  the  wretched  savages.  They  natu 
rally  fled  to  the  shelter  of  the  thickets  whence  they  had  emerged, 
only  to  be  torn,  and  shattered,  and  sent  howling  to  still  farther 
forests,  by  a  deliberate  volley — muskets  and  pistols  doing  fearful 
execution — from  the  party  which  had  been  left  "it\  air,"  under 
the  charge  of  Ligon.  In  twenty  minutes  after  the  fall  of  tha 


THE   BATTLE   OF   KIAWAH.  587 

lawa,  not  a  red  man  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  field,  those  only  ex- 
cepted  whose  flight  and  battle  were  alike  over ;  or  such  as  had 
been  too  severely  wounded  to  hobble  out  of  the  action.  More 
than  thirty  were  slain  outright,  twice  as  many  wounded.  The 
dead  were  buried  in  the  neighboring  woods,  by  the  whites,  in  three 
several  pits,  and  the  earth  heaped  upon  them  into  mounds,  which 
some  of  our  antiquaries  are  prepared  to  ascribe  to  a  far  earlier 
period.  And  thus  ended  the  fierce  battle  of  Kiawah,  one  of  the 
most  sanguinary  of  the  thousand  fights  of  the  old  colonial  periods 
in  our  English  settlements. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  narrate  the  events  of  this  petty  war, 
which  the  historians  describe  as  "  The  War  with  the  Stono  In 
dians."  It  does  not  belong  to  this  history.  Enough,  if  we  men 
tion  that  the  timely  provision  of  Calvert  saved  old  Gowdey  and 
his  fortress  on  the  Ashley.  He,  too,  was  attacked  the  same  night 
by  a  strong  force  of  the  savages ;  who,  not  suspecting  his  re 
sources  in  men,  exposed  themselves  in  numbers  to  his  fire,  and 
were  beaten  off  in  like  manner  with  those  at  Kiawah,  with  con 
siderable  loss.  Elsewhere,  the  settlements  were  not  always  so 
fortunate.  Several  were  broken  up,  like  that  of  Lord  Cardross 
at  Beaufort.  The  traders  were  butchered  in  large  numbers ;  but 
the  rangers  taking  the  field,  and  the  Spaniards  disappearing  from 
it,  the  insurrection  was  soon  suppressed.  The  curious  reader  must 
consult  other  pages  if  he  would  learn  more  of  this  history.  Let 
us  confine  ourselves  to  our  own. 


588  THE   CASSIQUE    OF   KIAWAH. 


CHAPTER   LV. 

THE    SHADOW   PASSES  —  THE   MOON   RISES. 

"  Who  comes  from  the  bridal  chamber  ? 
It  is  Azrael,  the  angel  of  Death !"  —  SODTHET. 

"It  is  a  sudden  presence  that  makes  dawn 
In  the  dark  chamber.     This  is  Isfrael, 
Angel  of  Life  and  loving  harmonies !" 

THUS  ended  the  battle  of  Kiawah ;  a  conflict  for  which  the  red 
men  were  entirely  unprepared,  and  which,  but  for  the  fortunate 
presence  of  our  rover  upon  the  scene,  must  have  ended,  as  did 
many  other  similar  attempts,  in  the  massacre  of  the  whole  settle 
ment.  With  the  fall  of  their  chief,  Cussoboe,  and  of  the  lawa, 
whom  they  held  to  be  invulnerable  to  the  weapons  of  the  whit* 
man,  the  savages  fled  incontinently ;  but  only  to  encounter  the 
reserve  of  marines  under  Ligon,  whose  unexpected  fire,  as  they 
rushed  confusedly  to  the  forests,  took  bloody  toll  at  every  pas 
sage. 

Harry  Calvert  forbade  pursuit.  He  had  done,  with  his  men, 
all  that  could  be  expected  at  their  hands ;  and,  once  on  the  alert, 
and  well  armed,  the  cassique  and  his  English  workmen  were  now 
fully  able  of  themselves  to  defend  the  barony,  in  the  event  of  any 
renewal  of  the  assault.  He  did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  restrain  Li 
gon,  however,  whose  passion  for  scalps  would  have  rendered  the 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives  an  unrelenting  one.  He  reluctantly  fore 
bore,  at  the  imperative  command  of  the  rover ;  and,  thus  disap 
pointed,  abruptly  declared  his  desire  to  leave  the  barony.  He  had 
served  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  been  employed  —  had  safely 
guided  the  party ;  which  could  now  easily  find  its  way  back  to 
the  ship:  and  he  was  anxious  to  attach  himself  to  some  body 


THE   SHADOW   PASSES—  THE   MOON   RISES.  589 

of  men  less  scrupulous  in  hunting  down  the  savages  to  their 
ruin. 

Ligon  was  an  old  scout,  and  knew  in  what  lay  the  profits  of 
the  business.  He  could  gratify  his  passion  for  scalps,  in  those  of 
the  warriors;  and  appease  his  cupidity  by  selling  captives  to  the 
English,  who  needed  their  labor,  as  slaves,  in  the  West-India 
colonies.  This  business  was  an  old  one,  practised  pretty  gener 
ally  from  the  Plymouth  rock  to  the  capes  of  Florida ;  by  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers  as  by  the  Cavaliers ;  and,  indeed,  the  example  of 
setting  the  red  men  at  loggerheads,  slaughtering  the  warriors,  and 
selling  their  wives  and  children  into  slavery,  was  set  by  the  virtu 
ous  people  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  who  justified  it  from  Scripture, 
in  numerous  delectable  texts,  at  the  cost  of  the  heathen. 

This  old  Indian-fighter  knew  the  warfare  well ;  knew  that,  now 
the  war  was  broken  out,  the  rangers  would  be  called  into  service ; 
and,  among  these,  an  old  scout,  like  himself,  could  carry  on  a 
very  profitable  business.  He  no  sooner  declared  his  desire  to 
leave  the  party,  than  Calvert  paid  him  the  twenty  pounds  ster 
ling,  which  was  the  reward  of  his  services.  Without  word  of 
farewell,  pocketing  his  money,  Ligon  braced  his  belt  about  his 
waist,  primed  his  weapons,  adjusted  his  knife,  grasped  his  toma 
hawk,  and  darted  into  the  thickets,  taking  the  direction  for  Gow- 
dey's  castle  and  Charleston.  We  shall  dismiss  him  from  our 
future  regards,  assured  that  he  will  be  in  at  the  death,  wherever 
the  vultures  shall  be  gathered  to  the  prey ! 

We  are  to  assume,  from  what  we  know  of  Calvert,  that  he  did 
not  suffer  any  time  to  be  wasted,  or  any  military  necessity  to  be 
neglected.  The  force  at  the  barony  was  immediately  arrayed, 
counted,  and  stationed  about  the  settlement,  in  proper  positions 
to  discover  the  approaches  of  an  enemy,  and  to  co-operate  against 
assault.  His  own  force  of  marines  and  sailors  he  gathered  in 
hand,  with  orders  to  prepare  for  instant  marching,  if  necessary. 
Of  course,  they  were  fed  and  refreshed.  The  cassique,  just  so 
0011  as  the  red  men  were  dispersed,  had  sent  out  provisions  for 
them  —  not  forgetting  a  certain  keg,  of  formidable  size,  containing 
a  potent  supply  of  Jamaica. 

Having  seen  his  marines  gathered  and  counted ;  ascertained 
his  losses  (and  some  had  been  slain,  and  others  wounded)  ;  hav 
ing  done  all  that  might  be  done  to  secure  equally  the  party  and 


590  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

the  barony,  Calvert  once  more  turned  his  eyes  and  footsteps  upon 
the  dwelling  where  lay  the  objects  of  his  solicitude.  What  was 
he  to  learn  on  reaching  that  dwelling?  What  could  he  learn? 
The  condition  in  which  he  had  left  Olive  Berkeley,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  conflict,  led  him  to  but  one  conclusion.  She  was 
dead!  That  morning  star  of  his  youthful  fancy  —  that  light  still 
shining  upon  his  soul,  and  casting  a  wan  but  precious  moonlight 
over  its  darkest  recesses  —  that  light  was  now  dimmed  for  ever 
to  his  eyes !  The  delicious  voice  of  his  heart  was  hushed !  It 
was  an  echo  in  memory  only.  He  should  never  more  hear  its 
music ! 

Such  were  his  melancholy  meditations  as  he  slowly  approached 
the  house.  It  was  now  bright  sunrise.  The  sun  was  rising  upo 
the  closing  scene  of  the  conflict,  when  the  reserve,  under  Ligon 
was  pouring  in  its  unexpected  fires  upon  the  scattering  parties  of 
the  red  men.  The  light  of  day  had  never  dawned  more  cloud 
lessly,  never  looked  brighter  or  more  peaceful ;  as  if  there  were 
no  bloody  strife,  no  wild,  inhuman  passions  horridly  at  work,  and 
heedless  of  its  bright,  stern,  penetrating  glances  ! 

From  the  eyes  of  Calvert  had  gone  the  wild  and  savage  fires 
of  battle.  His  face  was  now  wan,  his  eyes  and  form  were  droop 
ing.  The  passion  of  the  Hun  had  given  place  to  the  saddest  ex 
pression  of  a  lost  hope  ;  the  weary,  wo-begone  look  of  a  humanity 
which  could  tremble,  and  could  no  longer  strive ! 

His  brother  met  him  at  the  entrance,  and  silently  led  him  into 
the  parlor.  They  both  sat  in  silence.  But  that  silence  was  full 
of  speech. 

That  last  wretched  midnight  in  the  chamber  of  Olive,  when  the 
conflict  was  raging  around,  and  the  sharp  shot  of  the  marines  and 
the  wild  whoop  of  the  red  men  were  making  the  welkin  ring ! 
The  Death,  so  busy  without,  wore  no  such  touching  aspect  as  that 
within,  where  he  was  doing  his  work  in  music ! 

Yes,  music!  For  such  is  the  low7,  sweet,  broken  chanting, 
from  those  dying  lips,  through  which  the  soul  is  about  to  escape 
for  ever.  Hers  are  so  many  sweet,  throbbing  tones  of  the  soul, 
as  string  by  string  is  broken,  of  the  beautiful  instrument  of  life ! 

"  Those  are  strange  sounds  which  I  hear,"  said  Olive  in  a  bro 
ken  whisper  to  Zulieme.  "  They  almost  drown  the  song !  But 


THE   SHADOW    PASSES  —  THE    MOON    RISES.  591 

I  hear  the  song  too,  in  spite  of  the  clamor.  Its  music  is  very 
close  to  me.  It  sounds  within  my  very  ears,  and  seems  to  thrill 
through  my  brain.  It  comes  and  goes.  It  is  like  a  rill  in  the 
forest  —  a  low,  sweet  murmur,  as  if  among  green  leaves  and  sunny 
flowers.  If  I  could  only  shut  out  the  noise  of  that  shouting,  I 
should  hear  it  all.  Where  is  Harry  ?  He  will  quiet  the  noise. 
He  is  a  charmer,  Harry,  and  speaks  the  very  seas  into  calm." 

And  she  seemed  earnestly  to  listen. 

"I  think  I  know  it  now!  Yes  —  yes  !"  with  a  low  sigh.  "I 
know  it.  There  is  no  pain  now  !  But  I  do  not  see  you  all  well, 
and  —  I  do  not  now  see  Harry!  Where's  Harry  —  and  —  Sir 
Edward  ?  They  ought  not  to  leave  me  now  !" 

The  mother  said  something  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  know  that  these  are  angels.     '  I  believe  in  God,  the  Fathe 
Almighty,  maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  in  Jesus  Christ,  his'-— 
ah!  call  him  —  call  Harry!  —  and  Sir  Edward  —  my  husband." 

This  was  spoken  somewhat  wildly,  and  she  made  a  feeble  effort 
to  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow,  Zulieme  composed  her  —  ad 
justed  the  pillow,  and  tenderly  clasped  her  wan  fingers  in  her 
own. 

"  The  old  willows  at  Feltham — the  old  Feltham  willows !  Ah ! 
I  knew  that  I  should  see  them  again.  How  cool  is  the  shadow, 
and  there  are  the  swans  in  the  lake ;  all  looking  so  sweet  and 
peaceful !  It  is  time  for  peace.  We  shall  never  have  the  pain 
and  trouble  more !  There  shall  be  no  storm.  Ah !  now  I  see 
Harry,  where  he  crosses  the  stile.  He  is  bringing  me  flowers ; 
and  we  shall  have  a  sail  on  the  lake.  My  brave  and  noble 
Harry !" 

"  Olive,  my  child ! — "  interposed  the  mother,  in  tones  of  expos 
tulation. 

"  Yes,  my  mother,  we  will  come  in  soon.  Harry  will  spend 
the  evening  with  us.  He  says  he  will  not  go  to  sea  again.  So 
we  shall  hear  no  more  about  storms  and  shipwreck.  I  hear  you 
—  yes,  I  hear  !  . . .  But — where  is  he  gone  ?  Come  back,  Harry  ; 
oh,  be  not  so  impatient,  Harry !  I  did  but  jest.  It  was  a  child's 
jest ;  it  should  not  make  you  angry.  Yes,  you  shall  go  to  sea,  if 
you  wish;  and  I  will  go  with  you.  I  know  there  is  a  beauty  in 
the  sea.  I  know  all  about  the  Bermoothes,  and  those  isles  of  tha 
South,  where  there  are  grottoes  and  caves,  with  bright,  sparry 


592  THE    CASSIQUE   OP    KIAWAH. 

walls  —  stalactites,  you  know  —  and  the  coral-groves,  with  the  dol 
phins,  like  so  many  living  rainbows,  gliding  in  between  the  walls, 
so  deep  down  in  the  clear  sea !  You  may  see  the  very  floor  of 
the  ocean ;  and  the  glistening  sand-beds ;  and  the  bright  gems 
and  jewels  —  the  spoils  of  the  ship  —  and  the  beautiful  forms  of 
men  — '  these  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  !' — " 

So  rhapsodizing,  in  frequent  breaks  and  pauses,  with  a  brain 
wandering  off  to  all  the  fancies  of  her  childhood,  she  suddenly 
cried  out,  gasping,  as  with  sudden  fright : — 

"  No,  no  !     Harry  !   Harry  !    Where  are  you  ?     Come  back  to 
me,  my  Harry  !     Oh,  come  back  !     I  will  not  think  that  you  can 
drown  !     You  are  too  strong  a  swimmer !     Yes,  O  Harry,  come 
back  to  me  at  once,  my  Harry  —  at  once,  or  I  shall  die  wit 
terror !" 

A  convulsion  followed  —  exhaustion  !  The  pulse  flickered  wild 
ly —  feebly;  nowhere  —  now  there.  It  is  gone  —  the  eyes  closing 
slowly,  even  while  the  fingers  of  the  mother  are  gliding  up  the 
arm,  as  if  to  follow  and  arrest  the  flight  of  that  fluttering,  birdlike 
thing  which,  at  length,  afforded  the  only  evidence  of  still-remain 
ing  life.  The  eyes  continued  shut ;  the  lips  silent,  though  parted 
as  for  speech ;  and  the  mother  eagerly  fastened  her  ears  to  them, 
while  her  fingers  still  followed  the  slight  pulsation  in  wrist  and 
temple. 

"  It  is  gone ! — no  !  it  is  here  !" 

"  It  is  gone  !"  said  Zulieme. 

And  the  mother  threw  herself  upon  the  floor,  sobbing  violently. 
Zulieme,  whose  tears  fell  fast,  bowed  her  head  down  upon  the  pil 
low,  beside  the  silent  Olive,  conscious  of  a  grief  and  growing 
sympathies  and  sensibilities  which  had  seldom  stirred  in  her  little 
heart  before. 

The  cassique  heard  the  cries  of  the  mother,  and  came  from  be 
low  into  the  room.  Pie  could  now  leave  his  post :  the  savages 
were  fled!  He  looked  silently  —  looked  —  with  what  eyes  of 
deepest  self-reproach  and  tenderness  !  —  on  the  pale,  sad,  highly- 
spiritualized  face,  which  seemed  to  smile  from  its  lips ;  then 
clasped  his  hands  in  mute  prayer,  but  did  not  venture  to  ap 
proach.  He  would  have  kissed  her,  but  he  dared  not.  How 
many  thoughts  and  sorrows,  at  that  moment,  combined  to  make 
her  lips  sacred  1 


THE   SHADOW    PASSES  —  THE   MOON    RISE3.  593 

"  They  are  not  for  me  !"  he  thought  to  himself.  "  They  belong 
to  Harry  now  !  My  poor,  poor  Olive  !" 

And,  to  conceal  the  burst  of  tenderness  which  he  felt  rising  in 
his  bosom,  he  hurried  below,  threw  wide  the  entrance,  and  stood 
looking  forth  upon  the  scene  of  blood ;  and  here  he  waited  for  his 
brother,  whose  bugles  were  sounding  on  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
It  was  thus  waiting  that  Harry  met  him  on  his  return. 

For  a  few  moments  they  sat  silent  together  in  the  parlor.  Sud 
denly  the  cassique  lifted  his  hand,  and,  without  looking  at  his 
brother,  waved  it  toward  the  chamber  of  death.  Harry  rose  and 
left  the  room,  then  quietly  passed  into  the  chamber.  The  mother 
still  lay  sobbing  upon  the  floor.  Zulieme  kept  her  position  beside 
Olive  on  the  bed.  The  rover  approached  and  gazed  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  inanimate  figure.  And  this  was  the  sad  close  of  his 
earliest  and  sweetest  passion  ! 

"  How  beautiful,"  he  murmured  to  himself — "  how  beautiful  is 
death !" 

And,  eveji  as  he  thought,  he  bent  over  Zulieme,  and  kissed 
Olive's  parted  lips  —  glued  his  own  to  them,  as  if  the  right  to  do  so 
had  come  to  him  from  Death ;  and,  even  as  he  pressed  them,  the 
eyes  of  the  supposed  corse  opened  beneath  his  own !  He  started 
back,  his  whole  frame  quivering  with  excitement. 

She  spoke  —  Olive  spoke: — 

"  Harry  !"  was  the  single  word  from  the  lips,  and  then  they 
were  sealed  for  ever.  The  mother  started  up  with  a  shriek.  Zu 
lieme  fell  back,  terrified.  But  there  was  no  other  sound.  The 
eyes  were  again  closed  as  before  —  the  lips  silent,  though  still 
parted,  with  a  smile  of  innocent  and  childlike  sweetness. 

"  Who  spoke  ?  Who  called  '  Harry'  ?"  demanded  the  mother. 
Calvert  pointed  silently  to  the  corse. 

"My  child !  my  child!  speak  to  me  once  more  —  but  once,  my 
Olive !  Tell  me  —  oh,  tell  me !  Let  me  hear  you  but  once 
more !" 

But  there  was  no  response.  The  face  was  sweet,  very  sweet ; 
there  was  a  happier  expression  upon  it  now,  as  if  a  last  want  had 
been  gratefully  satisfied;  and  life,  it  would  seem,  had  lingered 
only  for  that  last  look  and  word  of  tender  farewell  to  the  beloved 
one  ;  and.  that  won,  it  had  detached  itself  from  the  mortal  dwel 


594  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KIAWAH. 

ling,  with  as  little  effort  as  makes  the  leaf  when  detached  from 
the  tree  ii .  the  gusts  of  the  sere  November. 

The  cassique  had  fixed  a  place  of  family  sepulture,  almost  at 
the  first  moment  of  settling  the  barony.  He  had  certainly  rhosen 
the  site  among  his  first  performances.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  house,  on  a  slight  crest  of  earth,  small  and  nearly  circu 
lar,  his  eye  had  distinguished  a  noble  group  of  patriarchal  oaks, 
each  of  which  was  probably  a  thousand  years  old.  Their  limbs 
were  of  the  thickness  of  ordinary  forest-trees.  The  sacred  mis- 
letoe  was  imbedded  and  green  in  numerous  boughs,  a  strange  but 
not  unnatural  or  unseemly  grafting ;  and  the  gray  moss  streamed 
from  the  gigantic  arms,  waving  in  the  wind  like  the  great  gray 
beard  of  the  Druid  bard,  as  described  by  Gray,  when  he  thun 
dered  down,  from  his  heights,  his  prophetic  imprecations  upon  the 
march  and  barons  of  the  imperious  Edward  !  Each  of  these 
great  oaks  of  the  cassique  stood  up  mightily,  with  outstretched 
arms,  as  giving  benediction  as  wrell  as  shelter.  And  around  these 
a  circular  line  had  been  drawn ;  and  the  axe  and  hoe  had  been  at 
work  upon  the  underwood ;  and  the  spot  had  been  consecrated  to 
its  sacred  purpose,  though  no  walls  had  yet  circumscribed  it,  and 
no  vault  had  yet  been  built.  A  few  years  later,  and  the  place 
was  duly  cultivated  and  consecrated ;  and  the  old  vault  of  the 
Berkeleys  —  beginning  with  the  cassique  of  Kiawah  —  may  even 
now  be  seen  by  the  antiquary,  looking  ancient  as  Death  himself. 
It  is  now  a  venerable  ruin  !  Yet  here  sleeps,  peacefully,  all  that 
earth  holds  of  the  beautiful  but  unhappy  Olive. 

To  this  spot  the  solemn  procession  of  the  dead  bore  her  pale 
and  delicate  form.  It  was  a  solemn  service,  though  there  were 
no  sacred  rites,  no  stoled  priest  to  officiate  in  the  ceremonial. 
The  war  was  in  progress ;  communication  with  the  city  was  cut 
off,  unless  under  an  escort  of  armed  men.  Even  the  burial,  so 
near  the  fortress  of  the  cassique,  required  the  presence  of  a  mili 
tary  force  for  its  protection.  At  least,  it  was  a  proper  precaution 
to  provide  one.  The  workmen  of  the  cassique,  the  marines  of 
Calvert,  were  all  under  arms,  and  present.  They  were  grouped 
in  order  about  the  grave.  The  mother  of  Olive,  Grace  her  sister, 
the  servants,  all  clung  close  to  the  coffin,  which  was  of  cypress, 
without  ornament  or  decoration,  if  we  except  a  few  pale  roses 


THE   SHADOW   PASSES  —  THE   MOON   RISES.  595 

and  some  wild  flowers,  which  had  been  gathered  by  the  hands  of 
loving  servants.  The  cassique  read  the  burial-service,  standing 
above  the  coffin  and  beside  the  open  grave.  He  read  with  sub 
dued  but  unfaltering  voice,  his  whole  soul  schooled  to  the  degree 
of  strength  necessary  for  the  performance  of  so  sad  and  unwonted 
a  duty.  Calvert,  with  -his  face  pressed  close  to  one  of  the  great 
oaks,  sought  in  this  way  to  conceal  the  show  of  emotion  which  he 
could  not  well  subdue.  The  strife  over,  and  no  call  upon  his  will 
and  courage,  he  was  weak  as  any  woman. 

But  when  his  brother's  voice  no  longer  reached  his  ears ;  when 
he  knew  that  the  last  painful  duty  was  at  hand,  of  hiding  from 
human  eyes  the  form  of  the  beloved  one  —  then  he  turned,  made 
his  way  through  the  group,  and  stood  for  a  single  moment  gazing 
down  upon  the  lidded  coffin.  His  eye  seemed  to  pierce  the  cover. 
He  shuddered  with  a  sharp  convulsion,  and,  with  a  groan  which 
he  could  not  suppress  —  which,  indeed,  escaped  him  unconsciously 
—  he  wheeled  around,  and  was  about  to  make  his  way  into  the 
forest,  when  a  savage  cry  was  heard,  a  bustle,  a  rush  from  with 
out,  and,  darting  through  the  circle  with  a  succession  of  bounds, 
the  Indian  hunter-boy,  Iswattee,  dashed  in  among  the  group,  even 
as  a  tiger  leaps  from  the  jungle  among  the  brooding  or  browsing 
herds. 

Never  was  there  a  more  striking  picture  of  mixed  famine,  mis 
ery,  and  insanity,  than  he  presented  to  the  gaze.  He  was  meager 
with  long  starvation  ;  his  eye  was  full  of  idiotic  fury ;  his  hair 
was  long,  wild,  and  floating  black  from  his  shoulders.  His  shoul 
ders  were  bare  —  his  arms;  the  clothes  seemed  to  have  been  torn 
from  him  in  desperate  struggle  with  wolf  or  wildcat.  In  his  hand 
he  brandished  a  tomahawk ;  and,  with  shriek  and  yell,  heralding 
his  descent  among  the  party,  his  appearance  was  well  calculated 
to  strike  terror  into  every  breast.  For  a  moment,  all  seemed  par 
alyzed.  Not  a  soldier  put  forth  his  hand ;  not  a  weapon  was  up 
lifted  ;  not  a  word  spoken  ;  not  a  foot  advanced  to  meet  the  in 
truder,  so  sudden  was  the  surprise,  so  formidable  the  spectre  !  In 
another  moment,  he  had  seized  upon  the  form  of  Grace  Master- 
ton,  grasped  her  fiercely  with  his  left  arm  about  her  waist,  while 
his  right  waved  his  tomahawk,  as  he  cried  in  his  own  dialect : — 

"  Annegar  !  I  come  for  thee.  Annegar —  pretty  white  bird  — 
Cussoboe,  the  great  chief,  says,  '  Come  !' " 


596  THE   CASSIQUE   OF   KIA\V  LH. 

It  was  a  grand  scene  for  the  dramatic  painter.  The  young 
savage  dragged  the  damsel  with  him,  heedless  of  her  screams  and 
struggles,  his  tomahawk  waving  all  the  while  in  the  faces  of  the 
party.  The  cassique  sprang  toward  him,  across  the  grave ;  but, 
ere  he  could  reach  the  spot,  the  hand  of  our  rover,  with  a  single 
buffet,  had  felled  the  wild  assailant  to  the  earth,  and  rescued  the 
girl  from  his  clutches.  The  boy  was  taken  into  custody,  and  fast 
fettered.  With  the  one  effort  he  had  no  power  for  further  strug 
gle;  he  was  exhausted.  He  was  a  madman.  His  constant  nar 
cotic  potations,  his  frenzied  dreams,  his  wild  and  hopeless  passion, 
the  misery  occasioned  by  his  own  consciousness  of  treachery  to 
his  people,  and  the  stunning  blow  of  his  father's  tomahawk  upon 
his  head,  had  utterly  wrecked  an  intellect  which,  under  other  cir 
cumstances,  might  have  made  him  the  bard  or  prophet,  the  ora 
tor  or  statesman,  of  his  people.  As  soon  as  his  condition  was 
ascertained,  he  was  treated  with  constant  care  and  indulgence,  but 
closely  watched.  In  a  week  he  was  dead,  his  last  words  being  a 
call  to  the  "  Annegar"  —  the  little  white  bird  —  which  had  been 
to  him  the  bird  of  destiny ! 

In  another  day,  the  cassique  and  our  rover  had  a  final  confer 
ence.  The  former  had  been  pleading  with  his  brother  to  remain 
with  him. 

"  I  pledge  myself  for  your  safety.  I  have  power,  as  you  know. 
Your  pardon  shall  be  procured — " 

"  Pardon !"  cried  the  other,  with  indignation.  "  I  sue  to  no 
man,  to  no  king,  for  pardon  !  As  for  him  who  sits  upon  the 
throne  of  Britain,  he  should  rather  sue  to  rne  !  He  has  betrayed, 
has  dishonored  me !  He  should  sue  to  me,  were  he  but  half  con- 
ecious  of  the  true  virtue  that  lies  in  manhood !  No,  Edward,  I 
can  suffer  neither  myself  nor  you  to  descend  to  the  meanness  of 
prayer  or  petition  in  such  a  case,  or  to  such  a  sovereign  !" 

"  But,  Harry,  unless  you  receive  this  pardon  —  which  is  really 
a  mere  form  —  you  can  never  return  to  Britain." 

"  Unless,  like  Raleigh,  to  be  sacrificed  by  a  coward  to  a  national 
enemy  !  But,  my  brother,  I  shall  never  return  to  Britain.  I  have, 
been  too  long  a  freeman  with  Nature,  in  America,  to  endure  wil 
lingly  the  caprices  of  any  European  despotism,  whether  of  gov 
ernment  or  society.  No,  that  Old  World,  with  all  its  rotten  con- 


TCB   SHADOW    PASSES  —  THE   MOON   RISES.  597 

ventions,  is  no  longer  world  of  mine !  Wretched  as  I  have  been, 
am,  and  may  be  still,  the  sense  of  my  present  freedom  is  still  my 
acutest  and  most  precious  sense  of  life.  Here,  manhood,  if  it  so 
wills,  can  live  in  every  vein  and  muscle,  in  every  beat  of  heart 
and  brain.  And  here  I  can  maintain  my  manhood  —  the  noblest 
of  all  mortal  conditions  ;  though  I  may  not  be  able  to  escape  pam 
and  privation  ;  though  I  may  never  more  hope  as  I  have  done,  or 
realize  those  passions  which  made  the  glory  of  my  youth.  Still, 
I  shall  be  free ;  still  I  shall  enjoy  the  sense  of  manhood  ;  and  this 
will  arm  me  to  endure  pain  without  a  murmur,  and  privation 
without  impatience,  and  the  denial  of  my  best  hope  without  seek 
ing  any  vain  substitute  in  the  vices  or  frivolities  of  society.  No, 
H0f  Edward  !  No  more  Europe  for  me.  "Were  I  to  receive  an 
unsolicited  pardon  for  offences  which  were  once  thought  virtues, 
I  should  still  no  more  return  to  England." 

"  But,  Harry,  my  brother,  your  people  —  your  followers  —  are 
you  prepared  to  lead  them  into  outlawry,  or  keep  them  in  it  ?" 

"  No  !  There  you  touch  me  nearly.  But  I  am  safe  from  your 
reproach.  I  shall  provide  for  their  safety,  and  their  return  to 
the  securities  of  society.  I  have,  in  some  degree,  provided  al 
ready.  The  documents  are  prepared,  addressed  to  our  uncle,  and 
to  others,  which  will  no  doubt  secure  their  safety  from  the  opera 
tions  of  that  decree  which  puts  their  leader  under  ban.  You,  too, 
can  assist  in  obtaining  their  pardon  ;  and  I  have  referred  my  lieu 
tenants  and  Belcher  to  you,  in  the  event  of  anything  happening 
to  me.  The  ship  herself  I  shall  formally  convey  to  the  crown  of 
Britain." 

"  And  whither  will  you  go,  my  brother  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me  on  this  head  hereafter.  Nay,  when  I  am 
once  fixed,  as  I  expect  to  be  somewhere  upon  the  Spanish  main, 
looking  down  from  noble  mountains  upon  the  broad  Pacific,  you 
will  come  and  seek  me." 

"  Perhaps  —  perhaps  !     But  I  have  much  to  do  here  at  Kia 
wah." 

"  You  are  right !  Make  it  a  world  to  itself,  and  your  world. 
You  can  transplant  civilization  to  the  wilderness,  and  so  train  it 
as  that  refinement  and  art  shall  be  triumphant  without  excess  or 
sensualism.  That  is  the  nice  point  for  the  study  of  the  philoso 
pher —  how  to  secure  the  blessings  of  the  higher  moral  of  «rit3ty, 


598 


THE   CASSIQUE   OF    KIAWAH. 


involving  the  full  development  of  the  best  human  powers,  without 
endangering  or  degrading  the  essential  manhood  of  the  race. 
But  you  must  abandon  all  your  wild  notions  of  philanthropy.  You 
will  never  reform  or  refine  the  savage.  You  must  subdue  him. 
The  colonial  government  will  need  to  follow  up  this  war  to  the 
extermination  or  utter  expulsion  of  these  miserable  tribes." 
"I  fear  so!  But—" 

"  Yes,  Edward,  enough  of  this  !     One  thing :  what  will  you  do 
with  your  boy  —  Olive's  boy?" 
"  He  shall  go  to  England." 

"  What !  will  you  trust  his  infancy  to  this  old  woman  ?" 
"  No  !     He  shall  be  consigned  to  our  aunt  Craven." 
Abruptly — "Give  him  to  me,  Edward!     Let  him  share  my 
fortunes  !     I  will  make  a  man  of  him.     I  have  wealth.     He  shall 
be  my  son  as  well  as  yours." 

"  Ask  me  not,  Harry.  Were  he  twelve  or  fourteen  years  of 
age — but  now — an  infant — " 

"You  forget,  I  have  a  wife — who  will  most  probably  never 
bear  me  a  child.  She  is  not  wise,  but  she  is  virtuous ;  not 
thoughtful,  but  faithful ;  and  with  some  really  noble  traits.  She 
will  be  very  happy  to  have  your  boy ;  and  I — " 

"  You  would  make  him  yours,  I  know  !  But  this  is  the  very 
thing  I  would  avert !  Harry,  my  brother,  I  am  selfish :  I  would 
have  him  wholly  mine.  I  would  rather  keep  him  from  you  than 
from  any  other,  since  I  should  feel  sure  that  you  would  wean  him 
from  me." 

"  Enough  !  All  is  said  between  us,  Edward,  except  that  love 
which  no  words  can  ever  say  or  show.  Let  us  part !" 

And,  after  a  fond,  repeated  embrace,  Harry  Calvert  tore  him 
self  away.  They  were  brothers  now,  in  every  sympathy,  as  in 
blood.  Zulieme,  of  course,  accompanied  her  husband,  the  marines 
forming  a  sufficient  escort;  though  the  forest-march,  from  the 
barony  to  the  Stono,  was  performed  with  as  great  a  degree  of  cau 
tion  as  when  pursued  before.  They  met  no  enemies,  and  gained 
the  ship  without  interruption. 

"All's  well!"  was  the  cry  on  board  the  Happy-go-Lucky. 
Soon  the  anchor  was  weighed,  and  all  sheets  spread  to  the  fa 
voring  breeze  which  bore  thorn  south ;  soon  the  white  sails  of  the 


THE   SHADOW   PASSES  —  THE   MOON    RISES.  599 

gallant  cruiser  were  perceptible  from  the  shores  only  as  a  speck 
—  the  wing  of  a  curlew  dipping  the  far  crests  of  ocean.  She  will 
never,  in  her  present  keeping,  revisit  these  shores. 

Once  more  alone  together  in  their  little  cabin,  Zulieme  caught 
her  husband  by  the  arm< — got  her  arm  about  his  neck,  drawing 
him  down  to  her. 

"  O  Harry,  stoop  down !  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you  !"  And 
she  clung  to  him  till  he  bowed,  and  his  head  bent  to  her  mouth, 
which  she  fondly  kissed;  then,  beginning  her  sentence  with  a 
whisper,  she  ended  it  with  a  scream : — 

"  Harry,  you  dear  brute  Harry,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  — 
to  make  you  love  me !" 

"  I  do  love  you,  Zulieme." 

"  Ah !  but  not  as  you  loved  poor  Olive." 

He  was  silent.     She  continued : — 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  this,  you  will  love  me  as  you  loved  her." 

"  Well,  well !  But  do  not  speak  of  her,  Zulieme.  What  is 
your  secret  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  have  a  baby,  Harry  !  There  !  I  've  told  it  to 
you  the  first  person  !" 

"  You !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  her  almost  incredulously,  but 
with  an  expression  of  tenderest  interest — "you!" 

"  Yes  !  why  not  ?  Now  you  will  love  me,  Harry  !  You  great, 
big,  brute  English  Harry  !  you  will  love  me !  You  will  call  me 
a  child  no  longer.  I  am  a  woman  now.  I  sha'n't  dance  again 
for  months." 

"  No !  you  will  always  be  a  child,  little  one,  though  you  had  a 
dozen  children  !  You  a  woman,  indeed !  You  are  only  a  pet — 
a  plaything !" 

"  But  your  pet,  Harry.  You  will  make  me  your  pet,  won't 
you?" 

"  Perhaps !"  And  he  stooped  to  her,  and  kissed  her  mouth 
tenderly,  and  drew  her  up  to  his  bosom  with  a  degree  of  fondness 
such  as  his  stern  course  of  life,  for  a  long  season,  had  not  suffered 
him  to  show. 

"  And  now,  my  child,  that  you  are  delivered  of  your  secret, 
get  your  guitar,  and  let  us  go  on  deck.  The  moon  shines  softly, 
the  breeze  is  fresh  and  sweet.  You  shall  sing  me  one  of  your 


600  THE    CASSIQUE   OF   KTAWAH. 

Spanish  ballads  —  'The  Loves  of  Fatima  and  Reduan* —  'The 
Moor  who  lost  Valencia' — something  —  anything." 

He  unbuckled  the  sword  from  his  side,  put  away  his  pistols, 
and,  with  something  of  a  sigh,  murmured  : — 

"  My  wars  are  over  now !  I  must  lose  myself,  if  I  can,  in 
dream  and  moonlight." 

And  in  the  delicious  moonlight  of  the  South,  while  the  good 
ship  sped  on  her  course  like  a  winged  creature,  and  the  breeze 
fanned  her  sails  lovingly,  our  rover,  half  reclined  upon  the  deck; 
hearkened  to  his  child-wife,  as  with  exquisite  effect  she  sang  those 
wild,  romantic  ballads  of  the  Moors  of  Granada,  which  appeal  so 
sweetly  to  the  heart  and  fancy. 

And  the  breezes  grew  stronger ;  and  more  swiftly  the  vesso 
sped;  and  still  the  music  rose  and  fell  upon  the  delighted  air  — 
Calvert  yielding  himself  to  those  seductions  with  which  Love  sub 
dues  War,  and  makes  even  Ambition  forgetful  of  his  aim !  And 
thus,  with  fair  breezes  and  a  grateful  sky,  the  Happy-go-Lucky 
passed  out  of  the  precincts  where  she  had  made  herself  felt  in 
storm  and  thunder,  and  gradually  disappeared,  coasting  along 
other  yet  sunnier  shores,  which  she  was  destined  no  longer  to 
disturb  with  violence ;  but  going  with  swanlike  aspect  and  motion, 
a  harbinger,  as  it  were,  of  halcyon  seas  and  skies,  and  of  a  more 
genial  and  loving  Humanity.  Peace  be  upon  her  course,  and 
upon  the  fortunes  of  those  who  have  so  long  beguiled  our  inter 
est  !  Their  world  has  put  on  a  brighter  aspect ;  and  Saturn  and 
Mars  no  longer  rule  in  the  house  of  Venus ! 


THE     END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


iNov'saoe 

22.  Dec 


PR  20  19745  9 





JAN  2  9  '64  -a  P 


4  1978. 


QCT    9 


HAY  1 9  67  -Q  Ptl   an  us  JUN 


LD  21A-40m-4,'63 
(D6471slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


GENEML  L«»WV-U.C.  BERKELEY 


eoooaat™ 


